


Carving Petals

by yozra



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Flower Shop & Tattoo Parlour, Comedy, Language of Flowers, M/M, Mentions of organised crime, Romance, Romantic Comedy, Sexual Content, Swearing, artist!akaashi, except it's not quite a tattoo parlour, florist!Iwaizumi, flower shop, tattoo parlour
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-22
Updated: 2020-03-21
Packaged: 2021-02-28 07:21:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 26,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22846300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yozra/pseuds/yozra
Summary: When Akaashi spots a new florist working at his local flower shop, he gets a sudden urge to ink his skin.
Relationships: Akaashi Keiji/Iwaizumi Hajime
Comments: 99
Kudos: 159





	1. ✿

**Author's Note:**

> When I started writing this story, I imagined it to be a slow, soft, sultry piece. As I continued to write, it turned into... this. I thought about changing the direction several times, but in the end went with what the characters wanted.

Akaashi Keiji was running a finger over his list of appointments when the sliding wooden door clattered to smack against the frame. He looked up in time to see a man step inside as tall as him and – his gaze briefly stuck to the man’s hair, slicked back and hardened, and then followed his appearance slowly down to the open suit-jacket, the matching black trousers, the brown shoes; he slid his gaze onto the round wooden clock on the counter – 5:57 p.m.  
  
His eyes snapped up at the sudden movement of the man heaving the door so it slid freely to slam back closed.  
  
“I want a tattoo,” the man said, his voice nasal like the buzz of a tattoo machine and as pleasant-sounding as having the needle scratch directly along his spinal cord. “When can I get it done?”  
  
“Any time so long as the shop’s open and free of appointments,” Akaashi replied in his usual manner, soft, like the brush of cloth on needles to wipe away loose ink.  
  
“Great, I’m looking to get a tattoo on my back, something really cool like a dragon or tiger – intimidating, yeah? I checked out some sites and the reviews for this place were all right. When’s the first slot you’ve got open?”  
  
Akaashi closed the book with a pointed thud. “I didn’t make myself clear. A shop that’s open and free of appointments that’s not here.”  
  
The man scowled at him. “What?”  
  
“I won’t be serving you.”  
  
The man scoffed, like Akaashi had said a bad joke. “Why the hell not?”  
  
Akaashi glanced to the clock – 5:58 p.m. – and then back at the man. “To put it simply – I don’t like the look of you.”  
  
The grin fell from the man’s face. “What do you mean you don’t – who the fuck do you think you are?!”  
  
“An artist.”  
  
“No artist’s stupid enough to say no to an offer of hundreds of thousands! You think I’m beneath you or something?!”  
  
Akaashi released a sharp sigh and dropped his gaze to the man’s feet. “Your shoes. They remain unpolished and faded, the creases at the back revealing you press down with your heels when you slip them on. I don’t believe you own shoe polish, so you will continue to wear those unpolished, faded, creased shoes until the sole eventually tears, which will promptly urge you to purchase a new pair because you think that’ll be cheaper and easier than to take those shoes somewhere to have repaired – I would say within the period of four to six months.  
  
“Your shirt. Unironed, most likely the wrinkle-free variety to instil a false impression that you’re a prim man. The inside of your collar is yellowing from days and months and dare I say years of sweat built up into the fabric. You probably own at least two weeks’ worth of shirts – and probably your whole wardrobe – so it saves you from having to do the laundry even on a weekly basis.  
  
“Finally, your five o’clock shadow is uneven, which suggests you don’t look in the mirror when you shave or, if you do, you make sure to swipe the blade – likely a plastic razor that hasn’t been replaced for months on end – roughly up and down, hoping for the best; I doubt you even know the concept of shaving cream.  
  
“All this tells me you won’t take the proper care required before, during, and after each of the sessions. I specifically wrote on my website, bolded and in red, that reservations for counselling be made via email as I hate being disturbed while I’m tending to a client. As you are here without an appointment, you haven’t read through my terms, your interest towards this art is lukewarm at best, and you show disrespect with your overall attitude including the way you made your entrance, and I am not willing to carve my designs onto the skin of a man who doesn’t appreciate—”  
  
“Akaashi.”  
  
6:01 p.m.  
  
Akaashi turned around to the open doorway leading to the back room, his customer leaning against the frame. When Akaashi had left him to check if he would be able to comply with the request of extending the session, his customer had been topless, loosely folding up his t-shirt. Now his button-up was back on (Akaashi guessed it was his way of presenting himself as ‘decent’) but open at the front (currently atrociously bare; this would change within the next couple of hours.)  
  
“I apologise, Kuroo-san, I’ll be with you shortly. Please don’t think I’ll rob you of your lost time.”  
  
Kuroo grinned. “Don’t worry – the entertainment’s worth it.”  
  
Akaashi returned back to the visitor who was now red in the face.  
  
“You say all that and then you serve someone like – like _him –_ with the hair and the jeans and – and everything?!”  
  
Once more, Akaashi turned back to give Kuroo a once over; Kuroo stood up a little taller, sent an air kiss and a wink; Akaashi resisted their urge to glare while making his judgement.  
  
And once more, he turned back to his visitor, who was the one deserving of the glare.   
  
“Kuroo-san’s hair is a natural phenomenon quite out of his control, but he has learnt to accept it as part of who he is and wears his style with pride. His jeans – I believe you are referring to the distressed parts across both knees and the small ladder along the thigh that may one day tear into a single hole – are the same pair worn for the past ten years and has even been repaired on several occasions; the holes are a natural by-product of wear and tear, the ladder was created when he was helping me move furniture into this shop. The so-called ‘everything’ – the faded shirt which was given to him by his best friend on his birthday during high school, the leather boots, aged, but brushed and conditioned regularly – are all painstakingly taken care of, and that is the reason why he is in this shop in the middle of adding a fifth design to his person.”  
  
“No one wins against him,” Kuroo called from behind. “Just back up, take yourself quietly out of the shop, and save yourself some embarrassment.”  
  
For a second, the man looked like he was going to explode – or at the very least spit out a string of verbal abuse – but he followed Kuroo’s advice – bar the quiet, as he stormed out and slammed the door shut behind him.  
  
“Your tongue, Akaashi. I do not want to be on the receiving end of it, even for a kiss.”  
  
“It’s lucky then that I feel exactly the same way towards you,” Akaashi said, turning around. “I apologise again for the delay. Were you able to find a design to suit your preference?”  
  
“I had a look and I’m gonna say what I always say, Akaashi – go freehand, go wild.”

* * * * * * * * *

It had never been his dream to become a carver – or in modern terms, a tattoo artist. The very idea of carving anything permanently onto his being actually used to make his skin crawl and he hadn’t understood why anyone would want to subject themselves to alienation in a society that frowned upon and rejected anyone with ink in their skin. Yes, the taboo was fading like cheap ink one ryokan at a time, but it was unlikely it would ever disappear in a culture where whispers and shadows of organised crime still sent hairs standing on end.  
  
However, Akaashi had always been in search of aesthetics. Whether it was in the strokes of a brush when he wrote calligraphy at New Year’s as a child, or the flowers that his mother bought and arranged on the cabinet at the entrance of their home, his eyes had been honed to pick out what was and wasn’t pleasing to the eye.  
  
Or at least his eye. Art was subjective, he was very aware of this, but at the same time he had never had reason to doubt his image was flawed, not when art teachers praised his combination of colour or design, his lines of perspective. He had tried all the traditional ‘ways’ – none of them sparking an interest – and he had tried every type of medium to satisfy his brimming desire to express himself artistically – to no avail.  
  
And then he had seen it.  
  
He wished his encounter with the traditional craft of hand carving was more romanticised, stumbling across a master somewhere to view their craft first hand, or seeing a person’s body overflowing with enriched colours.  
  
The reality was much more bland; he had been mindlessly clicking through videos online, and accidentally clicked the video with a close up of a person’s hand on another’s skin, instead of the video for signet engraving.  
  
It took months of weighing the pros and cons, the sacrifices he would have to make, the prejudice he would receive, the grey zone regarding medical qualification he knew he was legally required to possess but also knew not one all artists obtained; it would also set him back several years – years he could use to study under a master craftsman.  
  
Eventually he decided on becoming an apprentice.  
  
It should be mentioned he didn’t hold the traditional style in higher esteem – it had as many disadvantages as advantages and he could recognise that pinpoint precision more easily achieved by machines. But the traditional method reflected his art style of blending lines and shading, and also his work style – focussing on each stroke made by his hand, a fundamental requirement for any ‘way’ of creating art, which valued patience, and inserting the spirit – _the soul_ – without it tapering—  
  
Or, at least, that was how he viewed his work, and if this made people consider him a ‘snob’ in the way he presented himself, then they were free to do so in the same way he was free to refuse their requests because he deemed them unworthy of having such a beautiful display on their person when their heart reflected the opposite.

* * * * * * * * *

It was a cold morning, but not bitterly so when the sun was out in full, and Akaashi was returning home, a cotton bag slung over his shoulder filled with all the essentials – tofu, natto, seaweed, mackerel – _nanohana_ , and plenty of it, it being the season.  
  
Nowadays he reserved the whole morning for running errands. The lady (really, all the ladies) working at the supermarket, and especially the till, chattered at him while scanning the shopping and exchanging money – even swooping to take the basket to the side counter while he put away the receipt and change – continuing the chatter while he put items into the bag and seeing him out. Then he would visit the fish market two blocks away, the fishmongers greeting him extra loudly as they always did, and him returning the greeting in a quieter manner when he walked up to the counter to ask for the day’s freshest and most recommended fish. The tofu shop, the shop selling bonito flakes, wherever he visited, he would end up having an extended conversation.  
  
He didn’t dislike the lifestyle. The area he lived in was slow moving and had many traditional shops, which was comforting when he, too, dealt in tradition.  
  
However, it had not always been this way. When he had first moved into the area, he had approached all the shops with his defences spiked, ready for an insult or a ‘casual’ remark, nipping in and out to rid himself of his mundane tasks as quickly as he could. The clerks and shop owners served him with extra distance, and extra glances along his arms in the summer, and his neck in the autumn, and his hands in the winter.  
  
It had taken effort on both sides to put away their weapons – poised to be used but left unleashed – and actually talk. Once they did, Akaashi found most had been wary of him, but this was less to do with him personally, and more to do with his clientele. And specifically a certain group within his clientele infamous around these parts, the leader of which had taken a liking to him and his work, and had ‘entrusted’ its members to him (though they were few and far between; gone were the days where the amount of ink colouring one’s body indicated grit, mettle, dedication and intimidation).  
  
(Once, he wondered if they had accepted him into the community because they were genuinely pleased to have him, or because they were afraid of the potential backlash from said leader. He had turned a blind eye to the question, just as everyone else had turned a blind eye to him serving that small percentage of people.)  
  
Hearty laughter echoed loudly in the empty street.  
  
Akaashi turned his head to the pavement across the road where the voice had drifted from, and came to an immediate halt.  
  
It came from the man standing outside the flower shop he visited occasionally, usually to buy a few stems or a full bouquet for research when flowers were to be used in a design.  
  
But Akaashi was used to seeing the owner, a silver-haired woman with a crooked grin, and a hobble to her step during the cold months. Not a man around his age wearing the shop’s uniform of a forest green apron over a white shirt with its sleeves rolled up and beige trousers; he unfolded his (pathetically-bare) arms to bow at the young man leaving with a bouquet of roses, and watched his customer until they had crossed the road before disappearing back inside.  
  
Akaashi automatically stepped forward to follow—  
  
A horn blared at him and he hurriedly stumbled back, a car whizzing past – he retraced his steps thirty feet to the crossing and waited for the red light to turn green, his heart racing.  
  
Racing, because he had never felt this excited over a person’s physique.  
  
He rushed across as soon as the light let him, down the pavement to the store and pulled open the door – the floral perfume greeted him first, helping to soothe his nerves, and next came the colourful mottles, some vibrant like those on freshly-inked skin, and others with a quiet depth to their gentler, aged hues that made people think they had been alive decades longer than brief lifespans.  
  
The new florist – now in his resumed position behind the counter – looked up—  
  
His eyes immediately dipped – likely to Akaashi’s right hand that clutched the strap of his bag, where the tips of leaves growing along his arm stuck out from under his coat sleeve.  
  
The florist returned his gaze to eye-level. “Welcome.” He was unsmiling as he said this, but it didn’t sound unwelcome – his tone was grounded and professional. “Take your time looking around, and let me know if you need anything.”  
  
Akaashi strode determinedly up to the counter; the man straightened a little in readiness.  
  
“How long have you been working here?” Akaashi asked, a little stronger than how he usually spoke, only because of his burning need to know how long he had missed out on this new addition to the town.  
  
A small crease appeared between the man’s brows, but he must have given himself a reason to excuse the surprise question because it was smoothed over just as quickly. “Just started a couple of weeks ago.”  
  
“Are you here permanently?” Akaashi asked this with more urgency.

The crease returned, a little deeper this time, and lingering. “I’ll be here so long as the owner decides to keep me on. I’m hoping permanently.”

Akaashi stared at each of his features – the sharpness of his spiked hairstyle, to the shape of his eyes, to his gaze, to the line of his mouth – and then to his neck. Especially his neck. If only he could place some sort of vine—

“Do you need help with the flowers?”

It was Akaashi’s turn to raise his gaze so their eyes met.  
  
“Have you ever considered decorating your skin with ink?”  
  
“What?” The man scowled in confusion. “No, I hav – what is this, a sales pitch?”  
  
“Excuse my rudeness, I should have started with an introduction. My name is Akaashi, I live at the end of this road and use the traditional method of hand carving to insert ink into skin. I happened to catch sight of you on my return from my grocery shop and I couldn’t help but admire your form. I can promise you that you would become a masterpiece if you gave me permission to use you as a canvas.”  
  
The man stared unblinking at him.  
  
“Akaashi, you said?” he asked slowly.  
  
“That’s correct.”  
  
The man gave a nod – several nods, slow, comprehension drawing over him, and Akaashi tightened the grip around his bag.  
  
“Okay, Akaashi. I’m a florist who just started working here, and some random guy I’ve never met comes up to me to ask if I’d let them ink me. I don’t think I need to give an answer for you to know what it would be.”  
  
Akaashi blinked. “And what would it be?”  
  
The man blinked back at him. “It would be no. The answer is no.”  
  
“I see…” Akaashi tried to think of another way to persuade the man. “What if I were to—”  
  
“If you’re not interested in the flowers, do you want to take yourself out? I’m here to do my job of looking after these plants, helping people choose the right flowers for the right occasions, bundling and arranging the stems nicely into bouquets or sharing tips on how to look after the potted plants, and getting on with hundreds of other tasks that might seem unimportant to you, but actually need to be done so I can keep this place running. By ignoring all that and shoving your work down my throat, you’re not just wasting my time, you’re insulting my work.”  
  
It took several seconds for Akaashi to realise the constriction around his chest was probably from him having stopped breathing, and he drew in a shallow breath.  
  
“O-of course – I…” He began to feel hot around the cheeks. “I apologise.”  
  
The man shot him a glare – no longer confused, just irritated – then turned his back to him.  
  
Akaashi quietly removed himself from the shop and continued walking past a few houses before slowing to a stop.   
  
The man had been absolutely right. Had someone entered Akaashi’s shop and started selling flowers (no matter how inspirational the flowers or the man may have been) Akaashi would have been livid and sent him marching straight out.  
  
But even as he registered his atrocious behaviour, he couldn’t get the image of the man out of his head. And his mind was already running loose, forming patterns curling and entwining around his body.

* * * * * * * * *

The next day, Akaashi spent every available second between appointments imagining the new florist and how he would look underneath his clothes. He even sat down at his desk and started drafting ideas – the types of designs that would extract his character splayed for all to see, the thickness of the outlines that would expose each muscle, the colours that would match the tone of his skin. The more he drew, the more he wished he could share these ideas with him in the hope that there was one that attracted him enough to beg Akaashi to let it be a part of him.  
  
Akaashi may have been ‘in his own world’ (borrowing Kuroo’s words), but he knew basic courtesies and could tell when he had offended someone. He needed to be at least on neutral ground or it wouldn’t bode well for him achieving his goal.  
  
The first step therefore was to make amends. He wasn’t sure how to go about this yet, but expressing his apology verbally should at least help.  
  
He waited three days as a calming-down period, and on the fourth, Akaashi marched up to the flower shop and pushed open the door.  
  
“Welcome.” The slightly gruff voice spoken by the florist currently watering the flowers made him shiver. “How can I—” He turned, and the scowl was back. “You again.”  
  
Akaashi closed the door quietly behind him, and then strode up to him as determinedly as he did the first time.  
  
“I would first like to apologise for my rudeness the other day,” he declared. “Had our roles been reversed I would have reacted in the same manner and would likely have been even less lenient about expressing my thoughts. Please know that I would like to make it up to you on that front.”  
  
The furrow of the florist’s brows relaxed slightly. “You don’t need to do that. I sensed you’re… passionate about your work, I’ll take the apology.” He put the watering can down. “Is that all, or do you need anything?”  
  
“I would like to order a bouquet. I already have some flowers in mind.”  
  
Akaashi waited for his request to be accepted as the florist stared him down, looking like he was checking Akaashi for a lie.  
  
“All right,” he finally said. “What’re you looking for?”  
  
“Campanula, hyacinth, chamomile, and hazel. Would that be manageable?”  
  
There was a long moment where the man’s eyes wandered around the shop, like he was translating the request into a language he could understand; it settled back onto Akaashi.  
  
“I’ve only got one of those things on your list, you’re better off heading to a garden centre for the rest.” The man crossed his arms. “I get what you’re going for. Can I give you a few tips?”  
  
Akaashi leaned forward slightly. “Your professional opinion would be much appreciated.”  
  
The man inhaled deeply— “One – you don’t need to ram flower language into a bouquet. Two – you don’t need to ram all the flowers of one particular language into a bouquet. Three – we’re a flower shop but we’re not gonna hold all the flowers ever grown. Four – you should go to a different florist to request the bouquet if it’s going to be obvious to the florist you’re making the request to that they’re going to be the recipient of the bouquet.”  
  
Akaashi looked to the side, at the cluster of vibrant pink lilies, as he processed each of the points in turn; he determined all to be flawless in their logic.  
  
“I understand.”  
  
The man gave a satisfied nod. “That being said, this is the best… and maybe the only florist you’ll find around this area, and seeing as I’m the only one working here, I’ll look past the last point. I told you I accept your apology – you don’t need to go making me a bouquet.”  
  
Akaashi took a moment to consider this point and – he frowned. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”  
  
The man mirrored his frown. “I can’t reel off every single flower language, but I’m familiar with the basics – I got from the campanula and hyacinth that you’re trying to use apology flowers to put into a bouquet, which… I guessed from what you said earlier about making it up to me that you were going to give. To me. To apologise.”  
  
Now it was Akaashi’s turn to translate the florist’s words into a language he would understand. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t find the right answer.  
  
“I think you misunderstand – I’m looking for these particular flowers to study their forms as I may be incorporating them into one of my upcoming pieces. Research informs me campanula denotes humility, hyacinth sincerity, chamomile patience in adversity, and hazel harmony. The person in question whom I’m designing this for is… lacking in those areas.”  
  
The florist looked away, the frown deepening again; Akaashi thought it was a shame the man frowned so much when he had such an attractive face.  
  
He glanced back up.  
  
“Flowers for an upcoming piece.”  
  
“That’s right.”  
  
“An upcoming piece meaning a piece to be tattooed onto someone.”  
  
“I personally associate tattooing with the western method of machining ink into skin, and differentiate this from the traditional Japanese method of hand carving or engraving, but I don’t expect you to adhere to my terminological preferences. So yes, an upcoming piece meaning a piece to be ‘tattooed’ onto someone.”  
  
The man shifted his weight, and the confident crossing of his arms pulled tighter into his body so it was a protective huddle. “Then that… is… my mistake.” He cleared his throat. “Uh – we’ve got campanula. And like I said, hyacinth and chamomile you’re more likely to find at a garden centre. Not sure if they’ll do hazel, you should probably do a search for public gardens and take pictures there. Or failing that, search for pictures online.”  
  
Akaashi nodded. “Then could I have a small bouquet of just the campanulas please.”  
  
“Right. Sure. Yeah. Uh, any specific requests?”  
  
“Everything can be left to your discretion.”  
  
“…All right then.” The florist walked over to the counter – Akaashi immediately followed – and he pulled up a pad of paper and a pencil, pushing them towards Akaashi. “How about you give me your address and I’ll drop it off at your shop when I’m done, you’ve probably got… appointments to be getting on with.”

“Oh – that would be very kind.” Akaashi picked up the pencil and wrote his address. “If you could visit between two and three, or after seven – I don’t wish to be disturbed during the other times.” He pushed the paper and pencil back to the florist. “Money is of no object – please make it as aesthetically pleasing as you see fit.”  
  
“Okay. Right. I’ll… see you later.”  
  
They exchanged good-byes and Akaashi stepped out of the flower shop, turning right to continue on down the street.  
  
Along the way he saw one of the ladies at the supermarket walking towards him.  
  
"You’re looking pleased,” she noted after their hellos. “Did something good happen?”  
  
Akaashi’s small curl of a smile stretched just a fraction more.  
  
“Only that I’ll be getting a nice bouquet of campanulas later on today.”

Akaashi sat at his desk, lifting and lining needles, one by one, into his wooden jig, handcrafted by him along with several others, all varying in width, creating a precise curve.  
  
When he wasn’t working on his appointments, Akaashi tended to his tools still in the same room out back, where the cases of needles, jigs, inks, and all his tools were kept. In the same way as he did when working on carving, he worked on his needles in absolute silence – it was the only true way to concentrate. He knew some places provided background music as a distraction or entertainment to the clients, but even the most calming tones were enough to draw his muse’s interest into memories or imaginings that subconsciously affected the design at hand.  
  
The quiet rattle from the front door also crumpled his concentration, but at least his art wasn’t at stake here.  
  
“Please come through,” he called.  
  
He gently nudged the needles into alignment, and happy with the result, reached for the ball of twine, wrapping the string round and round and round until he counted twenty, where he cut it off and glued the end. He put it aside onto the tray to dry, and stretched his back that had been curling forward by the minute as he worked with the metal; a bone clicked into place.  
  
Turning, he found the florist hanging by the door with the promised bouquet in his hand.  
  
“I’m sorry to keep you waiting,” Akaashi said, pushing himself off the chair. “Could I examine the flowers?”  
  
“Yeah… sure.” The florist held the bouquet out. “Here.”  
  
Akaashi took hold of the pale pink tissue and tied with white ribbon – the flowers were a gentle blue-violet than the bright purple from the results of his search online. His eyes ran along each flower’s shape, direction, position of the leaves, the careful curve of the arrangement, the waterfall trickling over the edge to tickle his hand.  
  
“These are perfect.” He moved over to the wooden cabinet to the side, on top of which sat an empty vase, simple and slender with a widening mouth and tinted unobtrusive cream; he lowered the flowers carefully so as not to ruin their arrangement and stepped back to admire the presentation. Though he would take them to his desk later, they were at the right height for him to view comfortably while standing. He reminded himself that he would need to place them in water after he was done so they could be preserved just that little longer. “I will study these and consider whether they would be appropriate.” He glanced back over his shoulder. “How much?”  
  
“Three thousand.”  
  
“Is that all?” Akaashi mused, viewing the flowers again before shuffling over to the drawer under the desk where he kept his money. “The bouquet is bigger than what I usually buy and the arrangement seems far more intricate.” He also pulled out an envelope to place in the notes and returned to where the florist stood, holding it out with both hands. “I hope you’re not undercharging.”  
  
“I wouldn’t do that,” the man said with a scowl, taking the envelope also with both hands and a bow of his head. “If you need any help finding the other flowers, just let me know. Like I said, we don’t keep them, but I can ask around.”  
  
“I don’t wish to take up more of your time, however I’ll be sure to pay a visit if I require your assistance again.”  
  
Akaashi glanced over the man again. There was one particular request he would love dearly for the man to agree to – neither he nor the florist were currently working and the timing wasn’t unreasonable.   
  
He swallowed it down, knowing it wouldn’t be taken well.  
  
However, the man wasn’t taking his leave. In fact, he was blatantly looking down at Akaashi’s right arm – deep green leaves and bright red berries speckling the free spaces growing all the way up and under the sleeve of his black t-shirt. Then the gaze hopped across to where a rufous-legged owl sat perched on a branch on his upper arm, a watchful guardian, brown-black-and-white-striped feathers merging with the lines of the clouded night sky, a full moon trying to peek over the top.  
  
The man didn’t look turned off. Rather, Akaashi could see his eyes follow and flit between the feathers floating down to the backdrop of a forest.  
  
Perhaps he did take an interest in Akaashi’s specialised field.  
  
“Can I assist you with anything?”  
  
“Huh?” The florist startled. “No, I was just – sorry. Didn’t mean to stare.”  
  
“It’s all right, I can see you were just interested. It’s not every day you come across someone with so much art on their skin.”  
  
“I was watching you with your equipment over there. I didn’t know you made them by hand.”  
  
“Would you like to see?”  
  
Instead of waiting for an answer, Akaashi went to the table to pick up the chisel head he had been working on, along with the handle, and brought it back.  
  
“I crafted a jig so the needles could be shaped into a curve and set into a cartridge, wrapping twine to secure them into place. Naturally they’ll be sterilised before use, but once that step is complete the cartridge is slotted into this handle here and then wrapped in film to prevent contamination.” Akaashi held out the handle. “This particular one is made of ebony, a gift from my master.”  
  
“And then you” – the florist made an undignified thrusting motion with his hand like he was stabbing a fork into a thick chunk of meat – “stick that into the skin?”  
  
“Not with such violence. Once the needles are dipped in ink, they are inserted with much gentler movements. It’s akin to a woodcrafter chiselling detailed patterns into a work piece.”  
  
The florist winced. “Sounds painful.”  
  
“The manual process is slow, but far more forgiving on the body than the machine. There are even claims that suggest the pain is less, though that’s completely subjective as there’s no way of telling the limit of each person’s pain threshold.” Akaashi ran a hand over the design on his right arm. “When I had my arms inked for example, some areas were less painful than I imagined. Of course, other, more sensitive areas required fortitude.” He paused. “I know I already asked, but I’m hoping current circumstances will invite you to answer less impulsively – have you ever considered decorating your skin?”  
  
The man eyed him for a moment, sizing up his question – he shook his head. “Not my thing. Not sure I’d like a design enough to have it inked for the rest of my life without me regretting it. I work with short-lived art I can arrange and rearrange. Less pressure and all to get it right the first time.”  
  
The concept of their professions veering in opposite directions hadn’t crossed Akaashi’s mind. “You raise an interesting point… but flowers remain a constant in your life. Do you think you would ever tire of your profession?”  
  
“Flowers, huh.” The man looked off to the side, rubbing his chin slowly. “I’d say right now I’d like to keep on working with them. Though there’re always gonna be those days where I want to get the scissors out and chop everything up.”  
  
Akaashi raised an eyebrow. “Because an arrangement doesn’t quite match the image in your head?”  
  
“The customers,” the man replied, looking like the thought pained him.  
  
“Oh, I see. I can empathise.”  
  
“Have to fight off the urge to include hidden ‘I’m a dick’ messages in your tattoos?”  
  
“I only draw them mentally – those types of people never make it past screening. Everyone I serve, I serve because I know they are responsible enough to tend to the inked areas with care and have the right attitude towards the art.”  
  
The florist snorted, a hint of a grin making Akaashi’s imagination start running wild with ideas again.  
  
“Is it that funny?”  
  
“No, just – I just thought I should’ve expected you to come out with something like that.” He gave a nod to the equipment in Akaashi’s hands. “I’ll leave you to it. If you need any more flowers, just drop by.”  
  
“I’ll be sure to do so.”  
  
The florist turned his back to him.  
  
“Oh” – he turned back round – “mind giving me a number? In case one of the flowers you’re looking for comes in.”  
  
“I don’t want you to go to any extra effort—”  
  
“Like I said, it’s no trouble. Give me the hours I can call too, wouldn’t want to disturb you when you’re working.”  
  
Akaashi went to his desk, placing his tools carefully down and finding a piece of paper to scrawl his number. “Any time before noon would probably be easiest for you.” Akaashi returned, holding out the slip. “I doubt you’ll be working after nine, which is the latest I finish.”  
  
“Actually, that’s around the time I usually leave, so timing-wise it’s not an issue.” He took the note, folding it twice and then holding it up. “Thanks… Akaashi, right? I don’t think I introduced myself.” A small smile appeared on his face. “I’m Iwaizumi. I’ll see you around.”  
  
Akaashi followed Iwaizumi to the entrance, and wordlessly watched him step out and quietly draw the door closed.  
  
An image of water tumbling down rocks appeared in his mental image.


	2. ❀

Two days later, Akaashi stood by the counter within an hour of receiving a surprise morning call, viewing the small pots of violets lined up in front of the till.  
  
“I really do appreciate all you’re doing,” Akaashi called to Iwaizumi, who had disappeared out back.  
  
“I told you over the phone, I thought to ask when making an order and there were some available,” Iwaizumi’s voice carried from the open door that led to a darker room, though only because it was lit by natural light from the window and not the bright lights overhead flooding the room to accentuate the colourful sea of flowers. A few more moments and Iwaizumi appeared with the promised bouquet in hand. “Sorry, the arrangement’s simple.”  
  
The delicate bell-shaped flowers were pale blue and bunched neatly together in their oval clusters, though the bold green of the pointed leaves stuck out in between and fanned out over the wrapping to give the tidiness a wild edge.  
  
“Simplicity has its own beauty, and the man these are intended for doesn’t require frivolities.” Akaashi didn’t have to lean in close to enjoy their sweet scent, but he took the flowers – their thick stems wrapped in pale blue tissue to match – and brought them to his face, petals brushing his nose as he inhaled. “They smell lovely, but it’s a potent perfume. I think I’ll have to work on them while they decorate the dining table.”  
  
“Probably for the best, people have mixed opinions about their fragrance. Do you want that put in a bag?”  
  
“That won’t be necessary. How much?”  
  
“Three thousand.”  
  
Akaashi examined the bouquet from different angles; he was sure it was too large for it to be worth three thousand. On the other hand, it had been a while since he ordered a whole bunch; the last time he visited was during autumn to buy a single chrysanthemum, a popular flower for carving when it symbolised perfection, immortality, nobility and health.  
  
He imagined the flower on Iwaizumi—  
  
A little mismatched. Something told him Iwaizumi wouldn’t appreciate the orderly yet busy rings of petals.  
  
(He also imagined Iwaizumi would have several words to say about each of those meanings, probably something along the lines of: perfection not being as important a factor as effort, handling dying flowers was far from achieving immortalisation, sticking his hands into dirt was hardly ‘noble’ work, and health was what you looked after, not what you hoped to miraculously achieve by having an inscription or symbol carved into your body.)  
  
(Or something to that extent.)  
  
“Sorry – you can’t get your wallet out, can you—”  
  
Iwaizumi’s fingers brushed against Akaashi’s hand as he lifted the bouquet out of his loose grip – coarse, Akaashi thought. The touch was too brief for him to be sure.  
  
Akaashi reached for his wallet. “I was wondering, how is Hanaishi-san? It’s been a while since I last saw her.”  
  
“She’s fine. I just spoke to her yesterday to keep her updated on the shop.”  
  
“Did something happen to her over the winter?”  
  
Iwaizumi started tugging at the leaves to further smooth the curves over the edge. “Her part-time worker left, so she decided it was good timing to step down and have someone else take over. The job takes a toll on someone her age – lifting buckets and pots around, the early drop-offs, having to come in on off-days for watering. I know it looks like we’re just standing around waiting for someone to come in, but there’s a lot of manual labour involved.”  
  
“Oh yes, I’m well aware. I sometimes helped to move the larger buckets if I saw her setting up.” Akaashi counted one, two thousand-yen notes and – not wanting to break the remaining ten thousand – went to rummage through his coins. “What made you decide to take the job and move to a quiet town like this?”  
  
“A friend from around here recommended it.”  
  
The sentence ended hard on the full stop. Akaashi snuck a glance at Iwaizumi still fussing over the leaves, his expression set on professional. Respecting the note of finality, he picked out the rest of his coins in quiet before exchanging money for flowers – another opportunity to feel the texture of his potential canvas—  
  
“Like rough cut wood,” he mused out loud. “Do you not moisturise?”  
  
Iwaizumi froze, halfway to withdrawing his hand clutching the money.  
  
“…What.”  
  
“Your hand, it’s exceptionally dry.”  
  
“Oh… right.” Iwaizumi checked the back of his free hand. “Comes with the job.”  
  
Akaashi could see it better too, chapped skin split at various joints to add to the thin red nicks presumably created by the stems – he even thought he saw a pale line resembling a scar running along the side of his forefinger, but Iwaizumi was drawing his hand in, punching buttons on the till that jumped open with a loud clatter.  
  
“You really should take measures to protect your skin,” Akaashi pressed.  
  
“I’m used to it.” Iwaizumi finished dropping the change and pushed the till shut with his weight, forcing it to close with a clash. “Not much point when they’ll dry out again—”  
  
Akaashi opened his bag, pushing aside spinach leaves—  
  
“—And it’s actually not that bad this year, maybe because of the warm winter—”  
  
He felt the smooth plastic of the tube he was looking for in the bottom corner and pulled it out, holding it out to Iwaizumi, who stopped talking.  
  
“Is that…?”  
  
“Moisturiser. I always carry one on me ever since I received my first ink carving, finding it helped to prevent blistering and scarring.”  
  
That, and he had a habit of rubbing his hands, from reassurance, or discomfort, or just from his hands needing something to do, and he decided he might as well make the action productive by taking care of his skin in the process, which was why, even after his carvings had healed, he continued its application.  
  
“Also, from a hand carver’s point of view, it makes my work much easier if the surfaces upon which I work is smooth, which is why I recommend to my clients—”  
  
Akaashi stopped speaking at Iwaizumi’s hardened stare locking onto him, and he wondered why he was receiving such a hostile—  
  
“Ah.” He realised his slip. “I merely expressed it as a statement, it wasn’t said with the intention of having you prepare yourself for insertion—”  
  
Iwaizumi raised an eyebrow.  
  
“—But I see how prior interactions may have led you to such a conclusion.”  
  
Akaashi looked down at the small tube decorated with paisley patterns, a reason that contributed to its purchase.  
  
“This particular brand doesn’t contain harsh ingredients,” he said quietly, “and the scent of calendula is subtle yet quite soothing. My skin is softer, too, compared to other brands I have tried… or so I find.”  
  
“Then I guess—”  
  
Akaashi glanced up to an open hand, and beyond that, the owner looking determinedly off to the side.  
  
“I guess if you’re offering.”  
  
When Iwaizumi slid his glare to Akaashi (it could only be called a glare, although Akaashi wasn’t sure why he was receiving one), Akaashi handed the tube over.  
  
“It’s virtually new, I’ve barely used it since opening it last week, although I do have one unopened back at home if you prefer—”  
  
“This one’s fine.” Iwaizumi looked down at the tube as he tapped it against his palm – raising his head he held it up. “Thanks. I’ll be sure to try it.”  
  
Akaashi didn’t realise he had been tense until he felt his shoulders relax.  
  
“I hope it helps, even if just a little.”

  


  


  


* * * * * * * * *

  


  


  


Another four days saw Akaashi striding into the shop, ideas whirling in his head.  
  
“I would like every single variety and colour of rose you have available,” he said as he approached the counter and – finding Iwaizumi arranging flowers on paper – he added, “Whenever you’re available, though preferably soon.”  
  
Iwaizumi left the flowers on the counter and wiped his hands on the apron. “I’m available. One of each, or are you looking to buy out a part of the store?”  
  
Akaashi pondered over the question. Considering the request came from a repeat client who was especially flamboyant with his designs, perhaps he would be better off purchasing—  
  
“You want one of each, Akaashi,” Iwaizumi answered for him, walking around the counter; hearing his name abruptly tugged Akaashi away from his thoughts to note it had been the first time Iwaizumi addressed him directly since giving his number back at his shop, and he hoped it was an indicator that Iwaizumi was growing warmer towards him. “No one needs to buy out roses unless they really want to impress someone.”  
  
“Has anyone ever done that?” Akaashi asked, following Iwaizumi to the selection of roses of vibrant lemons, oranges, grapes, peaches and creams mingling with the popular shades of berry reds and pinks that took up over half the display.  
  
“Not while I’ve been on watch, but I’ve heard stories.”  
  
Akaashi had heard stories as well – or rather, just one, from Kuroo, who had apparently returned from a session one evening to find his apartment filled with flowers arranged by his partner to celebrate their ten-year anniversary.  
  
Iwaizumi put his hands on his hips; Akaashi’s eyes went to his arms and commiserated again on their bareness, though at this proximity he could appreciate the naturally carved definitions.  
  
“Each bucket’s labelled with its type and grouped by their colours, so feel free to pick and choose.”  
  
“Perhaps you could choose for me,” Akaashi said absentmindedly, his concentration still on a detour.  
  
“I don’t know what you’re looking for.”  
  
“I trust your professional eye.”  
  
He continued to follow down Iwaizumi’s arm to his hand reaching out to the nearest bucket (did his skin appear less chapped?) and fingers – nails cracked and edged brown from the soil underneath – curling around the stems, sifting through. The veins on the back of his hand were especially pronounced, and though Akaashi would normally wonder how best to approach inking over or around the natural beauty, on Iwaizumi he drew a blank.  
  
“Thanks, by the way.”  
  
Akaashi’s gaze jumped to the back of Iwaizumi’s head. “For what precisely?”  
  
“The hand cream. I think my hands are less dry because of it.”  
  
Akaashi felt a little tingle of pleasure. “Please think nothing of it. I just hope it was to your preference.”  
  
“It was.”  
  
Silence enveloped them, as loose and comfortable as tissue lightly covering flowers, Akaashi continuing to watch Iwaizumi pluck roses, one by one, from their buckets. Considering the number of times he had visited the flower shop, Akaashi had never given flowers as a gift. He had received some, once, from the leader of the unspoken group, a congratulatory gift for opening his shop.  
  
“Is it romantic or excessive?” Akaashi found himself asking.  
  
“What is?”  
  
“Purchasing all the roses.”  
  
Iwaizumi drew a stem from the bucket. “Nothing wrong with it if it makes the recipient happy.” He brought it to eye-level, twirling it slowly between thumb and forefinger while examining the petals and, seemingly happy, transferred it to his other hand before moving onto the next bucket. “And I’m not gonna complain when it’s good for business.”  
  
Dark pink petals brushed and cushioned Iwaizumi’s hand; Akaashi liked the look of their tones together.  
  
“What if you were to receive some yourself?”  
  
Iwaizumi’s hand stilled.  
  
“All these roses?”  
  
“If that’s what you wish to imagine, then yes.”  
  
A few more beats and his hand started to move again. “I wouldn’t want it.”  
  
Akaashi glanced up, wishing Iwaizumi would turn around so he could read the expression. “Why?”  
  
“Not my thing.”  
  
Although Iwaizumi certainly gave off the impression he didn’t like glamour, and therefore averse to glamorous displays of affection, Akaashi didn’t believe that a man who said he enjoyed working with flowers would so casually snip the idea away like he would the ends of moulding stems.  
  
“You get a lot of requests for flowers in your designs?”  
  
Akaashi faltered at the unexpected change in conversation. Without a reason to continue their previous topic however, he reluctantly let it go.  
  
“I suppose it’s become a trademark of sorts. It was never my intention to become known for flowers – only, word circulates. I receive requests for many designs, but I do feel the majority involve plantation.”  
  
“I get why. Your arm looks nice.”  
  
Akaashi automatically looked down at his arm currently hidden under his coat. He had received many compliments on his arm, but none had made him feel quite as warm as the one he heard now.  
  
“Thank you. Although I should mention that while I was responsible for its design, it was a friend who made the carvings.”  
  
Iwaizumi turned around, revealing a rainbow assortment of roses all roughly equal in size, petals neither packed tight nor floppy and ready to drop with a single shake. It should have been odd to see so many colours bunched together, but Iwaizumi had arranged them (subconsciously or on purpose) into a variation of light and dark that balanced nicely across the curve.  
  
“I like that very much.”  
  
“Good to know my ‘professional eye’ has your seal of approval.” Iwaizumi walked back to the counter. “Do you want them together or separate?”  
  
“Sepa—”  
  
Now there was a problem. Separating them would mean he would not be able to recreate the same effect that was inspiring him now.  
  
“I would like those in a bouquet as they are, and then the same again for separate.”  
  
Iwaizumi narrowed his eyes at him. “You sure about that?”  
  
Akaashi had never been under so much pressure to frantically search for a reason that would convince a person not easily satisfied unless backed by sound logic. “I’m looking to study them both individually and as a collective. And I like the way the collective looks in your hand right now – it would be a shame to disassemble them.”  
  
“Maybe you are gonna end up buying out a part of the store,” Iwaizumi muttered, beginning to wrap the ones in his hand, thankfully satisfied with the answer. “Hope your client’s worth it.”  
  
Akaashi approached the counter, watching Iwaizumi swiftly wrap the roses in beige. “He’s a repeat customer so I’m willing to stretch my expenditures on research, though I wouldn’t buy out a part of the store for him.” Akaashi considered Iwaizumi’s point earlier. “Additionally, neither would I buy out a part of the store to impress someone.”  
  
“I’m actually surprised—”  
  
“I would buy out the whole store.”  
  
Iwaizumi stopped what he was doing to raise his head and give Akaashi a long look – which Akaashi returned with one that hopefully conveyed the question of why Iwaizumi was looking at him as though he wanted to question his action.  
  
Iwaizumi’s chest heaved while he inhaled, and stilled as he – frowning – glanced around the room as though trying to latch onto something that would help to form his reply; his chest – and shoulders, and frown – deflated with his loud exhale.  
  
“Well. When you do, make sure it’s this one you come to.”

  


  


  


* * * * * * * * *

  


  


  


Eight days and Akaashi was once more stepping foot into the flower shop.  
  
“Thought you’d forgotten about this place,” Iwaizumi joked, walking from behind the counter up to him. “What’re you after today?”  
  
“Anything you recommend.”  
  
Iwaizumi crossed his arms, a frown threatening to cloud his face. “Not sure I can help you there without knowing your client.”  
  
“Oh no – these are for me.”  
  
“You’re getting a new design?”  
  
“The previous flowers are coming to their end. I moved them to my dining room as they are still pleasant to view, but they are looking lacklustre. I feared they might affect my clients’ impression of me, which is why I hoped to have the vase filled with a fresh set.”  
  
Akaashi liked the way the flowers caught his eye every time he entered or left, and wished to continue this habitual change in decor. He had also received a few compliments, from Kuroo included, who said it ‘brought colour to the place’ making it ‘less stuffy’. At first Akaashi thought the remark offensive, and then Kuroo had left and Akaashi had scanned the room – compact, traditional furniture made of plain dark woods, black iron lining the edges and corners of his large chest of drawers, shelves on the wall packed with bottles of ink – and he revised his opinion, thinking perhaps Kuroo had not been entirely inaccurate (though his choice words were still much to be desired).  
  
“All right, let’s breathe some life into your room.” Iwaizumi dropped his stance and stepped closer to the displays. “Any requests?”  
  
“Only that they spark inspiration.”  
  
Iwaizumi turned away, plucking flowers from their containers, quick and confident and not a single pause between one set and the next, and Akaashi watched on, following with a cautious gap of several steps between them. With Iwaizumi’s back to him, he was unable to see the selection until he turned back round to face him, flowers grouped by their type and not yet arranged.  
  
“You’ve got your daffodils here – pretty obvious – and these chains of flowers are the freesias, then gerbera – basically big daisies – and I threw in a classic – nanohana.”  
  
As pleasantly surprised as Akaashi was to have his favourite flower (slash food) in the mix—  
  
“It’s very…” Akaashi tried to think of an adequate way to describe the flowers, and decided to go with the first word that had come immediately to mind. “It’s very yellow.”  
  
Iwaizumi gave a firm nod. “A good colour for you.”  
  
That caught Akaashi’s interest. “How so?”  
  
“You said you wanted it to ‘spark inspiration’ – yellow’s known to be stimulating, fuels your creativity and helps you think clearly. You often get this look about you like you’re thinking, and then it sort of glazes over like you’re thinking hard, so hopefully the brightness will pull you out from thinking too deeply. Plus, it’s a positive colour – you don’t want to be at your worst when you’re carving a design that’ll remain on a person for the rest of their lives. Or, you know. At least until they get laser surgery.”  
  
“No one I carve would ever even think to have my efforts removed,” Akaashi was quick to insist, a little stiffly. “But also I hear the procedure to remove hand carvings is long, painful and expensive as the needles sink deeper to pigment the skin. That’s why I’m extremely selective over who I serve and make this point clear to all my clients before they begin their sessions.”  
  
“Huh – didn’t know that. Makes you rethink if you want it done.”  
  
“People have been getting hand carvings long before they had the choice of having them removed. That is, and has always been, the whole point – that they would remain as a permanent reminder or display of a person’s declaration.”  
  
“Then I’ve got a lot of respect for anyone who has the guts to take that leap. I don’t think I’d be able to do it.”  
  
Akaashi wanted to disagree – Iwaizumi came across as someone who would never go back on his word—  
  
Iwaizumi held the flowers up in front of his face. “What do you think?”  
  
On Iwaizumi, Akaashi didn’t think the colour by itself was very appealing, and he struck it off the list.  
  
But as a bouquet – it was refreshing to view a colour he didn’t use so much of himself. The gerbera and nanohana were strong and bright, the daffodil and freesia pale, and the green broke and balanced the solid block of yellow. Variations in sizes and thickness of petals made it a lively decoration that tickled his muse’s fancy, and images began to effloresce to smooth away the doubtful lines between his brows—  
  
Iwaizumi suddenly broke out into a grin – a little boyish, and proud. “I knew it would bring a smile to your face. There’s a reason yellow’s said to represent joy.”  
  
Akaashi thought Iwaizumi’s expression was more joyful to view – he almost wished he could take Iwaizumi home with him instead, but that was much too impractical. He supposed he would have to rely on his memory whenever he glanced at the vase.  
  
“I take it that’s a yes to the flowers?” Iwaizumi asked.  
  
Akaashi slowly nodded. “Yes… I believe they will provide me with a wealth of inspiration.”

  


  


  


* * * * * * * * *

  


  


  


Every trip to the flower shop gave Akaashi new insight. The flowers simply used to be a tool, almost an inanimate object which he used for his own means and discarded when they had served their purpose. But then Iwaizumi had taken it on himself to attach names and meanings to each one, describing their colours and characteristics, or their cultivation and care, and his fondness for the plants was catching and Akaashi found himself growing fond of them, too. Sometimes he found himself walking past the vase, reaching out to run his fingers along their heads like he was stroking a pet, or even offering a greeting.  
  
And if it wasn’t the flowers, then it was insight into Iwaizumi. Akaashi noted a small shift in his mannerisms, a sparkle of excitement in his eyes when he talked about his profession, his tone a touch louder, his words spoken a tad faster, but it was controlled – like someone trying to restrict their run to a hurried walk, trying to give off that impression of nonchalance. It was infectious, and Akaashi found himself leaning in to follow up with questions to keep their conversation rolling, in the hope that he would see a side to Iwaizumi that had yet to reveal its form.  
  
And of course, Akaashi imagined patterning his skin. He craved to draw the lines – bold but smooth, hues darkened to match his down-to-earth personality, a glimmer of colour here and there, hidden away and only found if one was really looking – similar to Iwaizumi’s smile. However, as much as Akaashi desperately wanted to talk about the idea of carving, he stopped himself each time. He didn’t want to ruin the relationship they had built because of his insistence, no matter how much he believed it would be a positive addition to his person.  
  
Still, he wondered—  
  
“Stuck?”  
  
Akaashi glanced up, realising he had been standing in front of the—  
  
He glanced back at the flowers with rounded white petals, the central petal resembling a lower lip sticking out and dotted with fuchsia, and the label _cymbidium orchid_ placed underneath (and why did he feel like he knew that name?); he must have been standing for… long enough, if Iwaizumi felt compelled to come over and ask.  
  
“I was thinking—”  
  
_Cymbidiums_.  
  
Of course.  
  
This was perfect.  
  
“—While I personally consider my birth flower to be heavenly bamboo – hence why I have it on my arm – I was reminded that these cymbidiums were also another flower representative of my birthday.”  
  
“Birth flowers… huh.”  
  
That wasn’t the reaction Akaashi had hoped for. “You don’t sound so enthused.”  
  
Iwaizumi shrugged, sighing as he crossed his arms. “People always ask me about them like I should be able to reel off a whole list for every date, but I’ve never really taken an interest. Most of the time they’re just made up by the shop or website.”  
  
“But you often find matches across sites and shops, so they can’t all be nonsense.” After all Akaashi had spent enough time scouring and studying and cross-referencing various platforms for meanings of flowers popular and obscure.  
  
Iwaizumi shrugged again as if throwing off Akaashi’s reasoning. “Yeah, I suppose you can’t go wrong with the seasons they grow in, though it can still change by a month or two depending on the climate and location.”  
  
Any other time and Akaashi may have tried to convince Iwaizumi, but his mind was elsewhere – if only he could know his birthday, he could narrow down his vision to a select few flowers and work from there; without any knowledge – though it allowed free rein over his creativity – his range was too vast.  
  
“May I ask when yours is?”  
  
Iwaizumi raised his eyebrows, then gave a third, smaller shrug of ‘what the hell’.  
  
“June tenth.”  
  
“A summer birthday…” Hydrangea. Cosmos. “Also a Gemini.”  
  
“You keep track?” Iwaizumi raised his hands in defence. “Not that I’ve got a problem with that—”  
  
“Not personally, no,” Akaashi said, watching Iwaizumi lower his hands. “I have a fair amount of requests for horoscopes, both of the western and eastern variations. Flowers, stones – you’re unlikely to become dissatisfied when details are in association with something as unchangeable as a birthday.”  
  
“Makes sense,” Iwaizumi said, nodding. He then gestured with a nod at the flowers. “You want me to put those in a bouquet for you?”  
  
Akaashi looked back at the flowers. “Yes… perhaps you could add other flowers to complement them?”  
  
“Baby’s breath maybe,” Iwaizumi said thoughtfully. “Roses… white – small ones, don’t want them stealing the show.”  
  
And with that Iwaizumi began sifting through the stems of the cymbidiums, muttering under his breath as he accepted or rejected each examination. After moments of deliberating and picking the fifth stem, he wandered over to the roses – Akaashi following close behind and peering over his shoulder. He was quieter with his decisions now, though still with that extra deliberation, and once content went across to the other side of the room, picking through a white flower with a large black eye – _anemone_ , the label read – and reaching three containers over to one that held frilly flowers along the top of the stem – _stock_ – and then Iwaizumi turned—  
  
Almost running into Akaashi and crushing the flowers.  
  
“Oh – just” – Iwaizumi vaguely waved him off – “wait by the counter. Or I’ll bring them over later if you’re short on time.”  
  
“I still have a couple of hours until my next session and I find your selection process interesting to watch,” Akaashi admitted. The other day when choosing the yellow bouquet, Iwaizumi had been silent and sure of his choices, today he was spending longer making up his mind, and Akaashi wondered what was going on in his head to create the difference. “How do you decide what to use?”  
  
Iwaizumi looked down at the flowers in his hand. “Shape. Colour. Size. Overall image of the bouquet. General image of the person if I know who I’m making it for.”  
  
The answers were standard. “I’m curious to know what kind of image you have of me.”  
  
Several blinks passed before Iwaizumi spoke. “You’ll see it in the bouquet.”  
  
He stepped around Akaashi (and also around the question, Akaashi felt) and went to hunch over the display tucked in the corner closest to the counter that displayed more foliage than flower. Before Akaashi could think to follow, Iwaizumi was on his feet again and returning behind the counter, so Akaashi came to stand before him. Iwaizumi slid his glance between the flowers and Akaashi several times; it must have been so he could make a suitable arrangement.  
  
He began shifting the flowers – and the leaves, which Akaashi didn’t know the names of; one looked to have been cut directly off a Christmas tree, and the other’s shape reminded him of seaweed, the rounded leaves pale green under a layer of sponged white.  
  
Iwaizumi taped the bunch quickly, disappeared under the counter and then reappeared with a roll of thick silver ribbon, which he unravelled to a couple of feet in length before cutting it free. He was careful not to let the ribbon crease as he wrapped it around, and tied off the ends with a bow, and carried on fluffing the flowers around, leaned back to admire his handiwork and then turned it around for Akaashi to see—  
  
“Is this good for you?”  
  
Those pale seaweed-looking leaves appeared frosted against the flowers that appeared as though they had been dyed by snow; the small dots of baby’s breath hovered just above and reminded him of a flurry.  
  
“It’s like an expression of winter,” Akaashi concluded.  
  
“You’ve got a winter birthday.”  
  
Akaashi threw him a questioning look. “How could you tell?” Akaashi looked to the cymbidiums. “Ah, the answer’s obvious—”  
  
“Your heavenly bamboo – when I saw them, they were bearing berries. I had a feeling if you’d been born in the summer, you’d have chosen flowers. The cymbidiums confirmed it.”  
  
Akaashi felt his heart skip a few beats – this man was perfect, and no better candidate for his art existed, he was certain. It was an absolute necessity for him to be inked, and inked only by his hand.  
  
“December the fifth. You have a very sharp eye, Iwaizumi-san, I’m quite impressed.”  
  
“I’d be embarrassed to call myself a florist if I couldn’t tell at least that much after all these years of working.” Iwaizumi gave a nod to Akaashi’s hand holding the wallet. “Keep the money.”  
  
“What do you mean—”  
  
“Think of it as a late birthday present.”  
  
“It’s been nearly three months since my birthday—”  
  
Iwaizumi pushed the bouquet closer to his face. “It’s a late birthday present.”  
  
Hesitantly, Akaashi took the bouquet. It felt strange to hold it, almost like he was holding a part of himself.  
  
“Thank you.” He brushed his hands over the cymbidiums. “It’s saddening to think these are only temporary.”  
  
“Then come back and I’ll make you a new one.”  
  
Akaashi looked up, about to make a comment when he took in how Iwaizumi was watching him – gentle, like the gradients of pale colours, soft, like the petals of flowers, a smile just short of blossoming as it waited for the morning sun; it was a delicate expression he would never have expected to see on someone so quick to crumple his features and shut his thoughts closed.  
  
Careful not to trample over this new discovery, Akaashi murmured, “You seem extremely pleased.”  
  
“I’m really liking the arrangement.”  
  
Iwaizumi held his gaze for a few seconds longer before shaking his head and, unfortunately, shaking the expression clear in the process.  
  
“Anyway. Enjoy the flowers and… hope you won’t leave it too long till next time.”  
  
“I’ll be sure to return soon, if not for research, then most certainly for inspiration.” Akaashi chewed the inside of his lower lip, hoping the following words would be taken as a compliment. “I feel as though I’m experiencing a surge in creativity as of late, and I’m positive you and your flowers are the influence.”  
  
A petal unfurled from being struck by a ray of sunlight, and Akaashi glimpsed just a fringe of an emotion that was still too concealed under a shadow to name.  
  
“I’ll be waiting right here.”


	3. ❃

“Good morning—”  
  
“Vase refill?” Iwaizumi asked around the pin held between his teeth, unusually preoccupied, wrapping a gold ribbon around flowers without even acknowledging Akaashi.  
  
“If you could. Something in season with spring.”  
  
Iwaizumi folded the end of the ribbon and pulled out the pin, trying to decide the position. “Mind if I drop them off later? I just got a big order that needs delivering by tonight.”  
  
“Of course. I’ll be finished at a slightly earlier time of six, so any time after would be fine.”  
  
Iwaizumi hummed his reply. Akaashi left him to his work, shooting another look when he reached the door – the disgruntled florist sighed his frustration and began unwrapping the ribbon.  
  
“My order can wait until tomorrow,” Akaashi called out helpfully.  
  
“I’ll be round later,” Iwaizumi growled, shifting flowers around. “Need something to look forward to, to get me through this.”  
  
Akaashi’s heart leapt in the same way as the day he first lay eyes on Iwaizumi, and he left feeling excited for the evening.

“Kuroo-san, I would like some advice.”  
  
Akaashi wiped the ink off the needles, placing them onto the tray on the table. Receiving silence, he turned to find Kuroo still seated on the bed, hands paused from beginning to button up his shirt, underneath which a gauze bandage wrapped around his chest was visible.  
  
“You’re desperate.”  
  
Was he? Akaashi thought he was being very patient, seeing as two months had passed since his first meeting with Iwaizumi.  
  
He disregarded Kuroo’s comment. “How would you convince someone that inking their body would magnify their physique?”  
  
“Who’ve you got your eye on?” Kuroo answered in typical Kuroo-fashion – with a question and a need to know the meaningless details.  
  
“There is a florist—”  
  
Kuroo chuckled. “I know who you’re talking about.” He started buttoning his shirt. “That is one fine man.”  
  
“I’m sure Bokuto-san would have something to say if he heard you.”  
  
“Yeah – he’d agree and use it as an excuse to invite him for a threesome.” Kuroo grinned up at Akaashi, sly. “If you’ve got your sights set on him though, he wouldn’t lay a finger.”  
  
“I only wish to ink his skin. He likes flowers – however, he sounded concerned about losing interest in the design. After our conversation the other day, I thought to use his birth flower as it not only celebrates his birthday but also his passion.”  
  
Despite Iwaizumi lacking enthusiasm with birth flowers, Akaashi believed he would be able to persuade him to agree; Iwaizumi had said he liked the design on Akaashi’s arm, he was bound to like the draft sitting at the very top inside the first drawer of his desk—  
  
Akaashi caught Kuroo staring.  
  
“You look as though you wish to say something.”  
  
“You sure you’re interested in getting him naked just so you can ink him?”  
  
“He wouldn’t have to be naked,” Akaashi immediately replied. “As much I would love to see my art bloom across his entire body, I have come to realise he would be concerned about his appearance affecting business. Suppose he would only agree to carvings that could be concealed, that would leave options between the torso and legs – torso is more likely to be his preference, which means he would only need to remove his shirt for me to ink his chest or back.”  
  
Akaashi imagined the design on Iwaizumi’s form; not that he knew what Iwaizumi looked like underneath his shirt, but he gave it his best shot. If his arms were any indication, he was likely to be equally muscular underneath that shirt – the lines wouldn’t be hard and boasting strength, they would likely be defined just faintly enough to suggest it. “I think chest, something personal should be engraved close to the heart.”  
  
Kuroo slowly nodded, slipping his sly grin back on his face. “Okay. If you deicide you need advice for the other thing, just let me know.”  
  
“What other thing?”  
  
“That’s for you to find out.”  
  
Akaashi frowned at the cryptic message and then sighed his confusion away. “Please give my regards to Bokuto-san.”  
  
“Maybe you can give them to him yourself when I get him to come back and try again.”  
  
Akaashi hoped he wouldn’t. Not because he didn’t like Bokuto, but because the last time he had seen Bokuto was when he had sat on this very bed, jumping up and shirking away from the needles as soon as he realised what would be inserted into him, and Akaashi was actually relieved he wouldn’t have to try to engrave a design onto a person who just couldn’t sit still; he was sure even his master would be hard-pressed to engrave a man as fidgety as Bokuto.  
  
“Anyway. Talk to the florist about it outside of work and tell me what happens next session.”  
  
“I feel it would be too early for me to ask again whether he would agree to—”  
  
Kuroo slapped him on the shoulder. “I meant the other thing.” Another two encouraging pats and then he was moving towards the door.  
  
“What exactly is this other thing you keep mentioning—”  
  
Kuroo gave a wave and disappeared out of the shop, leaving Akaashi staring after him.  
  
“What other thing?” he asked himself softly. What else could be so important for him to turn his attention away from the current issue at hand?

It was nearing seven when the door rattled open and smacked against the side.  
  
“Get yourself out here!”  
  
Even without hearing the grating voice, Akaashi could automatically tell by the rough treatment of the door it wasn’t Iwaizumi – though he did feel like he recognised the voice from somewhere. He put down his pencil and padded out into the entrance—  
  
It was that man who had visited weeks beforehand, the one Akaashi had refused to ink. He had returned with two other men in tow – ‘goons’ was the word that came to mind.  
  
The one slowly drawing the door closed was largely built, as tall as Akaashi with twice the muscle weight, sleeves rolled up to reveal his arms packed with blues and reds and greens swirling around in traditional patterns (Akaashi liked the handiwork and could immediately tell from the vibrant colours that they had been hand carved). He crossed his arms and stood a large blockage to prevent escape (unaware there was a door that lead out back and, if worse came to worst, then the bedroom window upstairs – there was a small roof above the back door he could safely jump on, if he wanted).  
  
The other man – scrawny and the smallest of the three – skulked around the room, eyeing everything as if in search for something that looked to be of value he could potentially destroy. The man’s ‘threatening’ display was rather wasted – the room was largely a cold, open space. The only thing of value was a mural spanning three metres with birds often depicted in carvings and tattoos, some mythological – the Phoenix and Vermillion Bird – and others more common – the stork and peacock. The rest of the items were easily replaceable – the counter on the raised wooden flooring behind which Akaashi currently stood, a grey landline the only item on display, the book of appointments and stationery kept neatly in the drawer; his sandals, bought for less than one thousand yen which he slipped on between appointments or during breaks to stand outside, stretch his legs and breathe some fresh air; and sitting next to the counter at almost equal height, a large stone statue of a cat gifted from Kuroo, with its abnormally rounded eyes taking up half its head and baring its teeth less in intimidation and more in a grimace as though it had just been spotted spilling milk down its front.  
  
He would not be upset to see it gone.  
  
“May I help you?” Akaashi directed the question to the man acting as leader.  
  
“You really thought I wouldn’t be back after you made me look like a fool?”  
  
Akaashi didn’t, and usually this would slip past his brain-to-mouth filter, but not today – he caught it just in time to keep his opinion to himself; in this instance, staying quiet was the best option.  
  
“I found somewhere else,” the man continued on, a smirk twisted onto his face. “So much better than you. Did it quick and hardly hurt. When I told them about this place they laughed, saying you’re an antique.”  
  
Akaashi wanted to dissect that comment for several of its items, such as the exact duration of ‘quick’, which body part he chose for it to be painless, if he could show the art in order to assess the artist’s level, and whether he had resorted to machines instead of hand carving.  
  
And that being an antique meant Akaashi had, in actuality, considerable value.  
  
But he bit his tongue and watched in silence.  
  
“Oh – you thought I was a bored businessman who had money to burn and decided to do this on a whim? How ’bout if I told you I’m a member the most feared group around this area?”  
  
Akaashi knew the most feared group around this area because members of said feared group came to him to have work done on their skin. (This was the same group whose leader came to visit him – twice, once with flowers to size him up and question him on his values and ethics, and once when Akaashi had refused to serve one of the lower-ranking members because of his rudeness and he had visited to personally apologise.)  
  
As this man had even worse manners than the man he had refused to carve, Akaashi knew there was absolutely zero chance that this man – and the two he had brought along – belonged to that same group. Which meant he was incorrectly assigning his group the title of being ‘the most feared’, he was most definitely not the strongest, and he was not a very smart person.  
  
“Yeah, I bet that shut you up.”  
  
Akaashi opened his mouth – and closed it again.  
  
The door rattled open.  
  
“Akaashi, you – _what the_ —”  
  
The man by the door grabbed Iwaizumi by his jacket and reeled him in, pushing him back against the wall with a grunt – the other scurried over to slam the door back shut.  
  
Iwaizumi glanced from the man with two fistfuls of his clothes, to the one by the door, to the leader, and then to Akaashi; in light of what was happening, Iwaizumi appeared remarkably composed.  
  
“Who the fuck are you?” the leader spat.  
  
Iwaizumi flicked his glance at him. “Florist down the road.” He raised his hand holding the bouquet in his hand – tulips. “Bringing some flowers.”  
  
The leader snorted. “That’s cute. Got your eye on him?”  
  
Iwaizumi glanced to Akaashi, then back to the man. “Maybe I do. Got a problem with that?”  
  
“Might have to rough up his pretty face, is all,” the leader said, strutting up to Iwaizumi. “He wasn’t all that polite when I last came.”  
  
He lashed out at the bouquet, tugging it out of Iwaizumi’s hand. He turned it around, viewing the flowers the full 360 degrees.  
  
“Kinda like the way I’m gonna this bouquet…”  
  
He let it drop to his feet and stepped on it, twisting it like he was extinguishing a cigarette.  
  
Akaashi felt the same twist trample in his chest and checked Iwaizumi – he was clenching his hands into fists.  
  
“Who are you with?” Iwaizumi spoke clearly and calmly.  
  
“What’s it to you?”  
  
“I thought you might be small fry in Seijoh’s lake, but then you opened your mouth. Oikawa’s dumb, but he’s got standards, there’s no way you’d pass his tests, so you’ve got to be with someone else. Was just curious to know who.”  
  
Akaashi widened his eyes at Iwaizumi speaking without dropping his voice to a hush or darting his eyes around the room like someone would overhear and drag him to Seijoh just for daring to pair that name with Oikawa’s in the same sentence.  
  
He didn’t even add a ‘san’.  
  
“Who the fuck do you think you are?” The leader stepped up to Iwaizumi, jutting his chin out as he closed in on Iwaizumi’s face. “You think you can threaten us?”  
  
“It’s on you if you feel threatened, I’m just saying it like it is.” Iwaizumi turned to face him full on and squinted. “You _do_ know Oikawa, right?”  
  
“The pompous one that goes around calling everyone with stupid pet names, yeah, we all know that fucking idiot.”  
  
“Not actually gonna argue with you there. All right – what about Iwa-chan?”  
  
The man shrugged. “What is she, his girl? Why the fuck would I care about a girl called Iwa-chan—”  
  
“I know ’bout Iwa-chan,” the large man pushing Iwaizumi back piped up, though he spoke quieter than Akaashi expected.  
  
The leader turned to him. “Who’s Iwa-chan?”  
  
“Well, y’know how everyone goes on ’bout Oikawa bein’ afraid of nothin’? There’s always been this rumour that he’s got one weakness.” The man glanced around and leaned in— “This _guy_ named ‘Iwa-chan’.”  
  
(He dropped his voice and his eyes kept darting around even after he said it, and Akaashi thought _this_ was how a person was supposed to react when speaking the name of Seijoh and its leader. The fact that this man was doing the same for a person Akaashi had never heard of meant this ‘Iwa-chan’ must be a force to be reckoned with.)  
  
“No one knows what he looks like neither,” a shrill voice interrupted – the goon by the door. “Only, whenever Oikawa’s done, or is about to do, something real sketchy, he goes – ‘don’t let Iwa-chan know’—”  
  
Iwaizumi snorted. Akaashi – and everyone else – turned to find him shaking his head with a slight grin.  
  
“Yeah, I’ve heard… things,” the large man continued. “They call him ‘The Spiker’ ’cause he uses these spiked gloves for fightin’ ’n he’s got a head-butt so strong he’s put people in comas.”  
  
“Got told the other day he’s that masked champion from the underground arm wrestling championship,” the other added. “Undefeated for three years and counting.”  
  
“No fuckin’ way – I fought him in the second round! Might as well’ve been wrestlin’ a gorilla, he was fierce!”  
  
“Can you morons get back to the fucking point?” The leader returned to look at Iwa-chan. “What’re you bringing his name up for?”  
  
Iwaizumi cleared his throat—  
  
“I’m Iwa-chan.”  
  
Akaashi felt his eyebrows rise so high he was sure he was going to pull muscles from the strain.  
  
“Yeah, right,” the leader laughed off. “You, a florist.”  
  
Iwaizumi wasn’t laughing. “Yeah, me, the florist, Iwaizumi. Also known as – Iwa-chan.”  
  
Akaashi could see it, the nervous glances between the two goons, and especially from one who was keeping Iwaizumi restrained—  
  
Iwaizumi turned to him. “Think you can loosen your grip for me?”  
  
The man jerked his hand away and took a step back towards the door.  
  
“Oh, come on!” The leader waved his arm at Iwaizumi. “He’s bluffing!”  
  
The large man shook his head violently. “Nah, he ain’t.”  
  
“You’re bigger than him!”  
  
“It ain’t about size! Didn’t I jus’ say he was a goril—” The large man widened his eyes in fear and turned to Iwaizumi. “I don’t mean you look like one, I meant you’re strong like one, please don’t take no offence.”  
  
Iwaizumi shrugged and shook his head. “None taken.”  
  
“I might’ve been okay with taking on Oikawa,” the small one said, pushing the door back, “but _Iwa-chan_? Not worth risking my life for.”  
  
With that, they scurried out of the shop.  
  
The leader turned back to Iwaizumi, standing his ground even as he eyed Iwaizumi cracking his knuckles.  
  
“You’re bluffing,” he said, quieter now, as if trying to convince himself. “They’re just rumours.”  
  
“Sure.” Iwaizumi replied, taking a step forward – the leader took a leap back towards the door. “Which do you want to test first, my arm or my head?”  
  
“You’re just a florist,” he accused again, all the while shirking back as Iwaizumi pushed forward.  
  
“I’m a florist associated with Oikawa” – a clatter came from the door as the leader knocked his shoulder against its edge – “you might want to just check with your boss how willing they are to start a fight with him.”  
  
“You don’t know Oikawa,” the leader said, his following step putting him firmly outside of the shop.  
  
Iwaizumi reached into his back pocket and pulled out his phone, following him outside; Akaashi craned his neck so as not to miss the action. “You want me to give him a call? I’ll even let you talk to him.”  
  
There was a rush of scuffles that quickly grew distant.  
  
“And don’t think about coming back here!” Iwaizumi yelled. He stood on guard for a few moments, then returned inside, shaking his head. “Idiots.”  
  
Using Oikawa as a bluff would be treading so far past the line into endangering his life that Akaashi didn’t doubt for a second about Iwaizumi’s relationship. But…  
  
“Iwaizumi-san, are those rumours true?”  
  
Iwaizumi frowned as he recalled – and snorted. “I used to play volleyball and my position was wing spiker. Probably someone overheard Oikawa and added the details. And the only person I head-butted was Oikawa – once. Gave him a bloody nose. He might’ve gotten a mild concussion, I don’t remember.”  
  
“And the arm wrestling championship?”  
  
Iwaizumi grinned proudly. “Four years and counting.”  
  
Akaashi glanced down at those arms. To anyone else, they were the arms of a man who regularly worked out – no one would suspect they were able to take down some of the strongest men in Japan.  
  
And those arms were now stretching for the trampled mess of green and pink as Iwaizumi lowered himself to crouch, picking up the bouquet and two of the tulip heads that had been torn off; he examined each of the flower heads with petals twisted and tattered, lifting the bent and broken stems only for them to fall lifelessly back down.  
  
His sigh was heavy. “I’m gonna have to go back and redo this.” He pushed himself up onto his feet, muttering, “They were good ones too.”  
  
“Let me join you,” Akaashi said, hurrying back to his studio.  
  
“You don’t need to do that,” Iwaizumi called.  
  
Opening the drawer to his desk, Akaashi called back— “As I said, I have no other appointments and I wouldn’t want you to make a second trip.” He grabbed his keys and wallet, and then returned to slip on the sandals. “Especially as the inconvenience was my doing.”  
  
Akaashi came to stand beside Iwaizumi, waiting for him to make a move so he could close the shop.  
  
Iwaizumi didn’t. He watched Akaashi, his already-serious expression laced with extra contemplation.  
  
“Only if you agree to dinner.”  
  
“Dinner?”  
  
At the mention of food, Akaashi was reminded that it was far past the time he would usually consume his light meal to pull him through the remainder of the evening.  
  
“You… busy?” The uncertainty made Akaashi doubt for a moment whether Iwaizumi was indeed a formidable force to be reckoned with.  
  
“I’m sorry, I was just consulting my stomach. Dinner would be welcome, I’m feeling quite peckish after all that kerfuffle.”  
  
A relieved grin. “Let’s grab food first then, and I’ll make you your bouquet on the way back.”  
  
They walked in the direction of the flower shop – and past it, turning around the first corner to carry on past several buildings before coming to a stop at a privately run izakaya. As soon as Akaashi pulled open the door, greetings were loudly thrown in their direction, and they entered, Akaashi leading the way past people seated along the counter. The owner recognised him and offered an additional friendly greeting and – after confirming with Iwaizumi – Akaashi ordered two beers. They headed past the two tables on raised tatami flooring occupied by large groups to ones smaller at the back, taking the last empty table in the middle.  
  
“I’ve been meaning to come to this place,” Iwaizumi said, glancing around the interior.  
  
“I frequent this place often.” It was close, and he came with Kuroo – sometimes with Bokuto joining them – after his sessions for catching up.  
  
Beers were placed before them and they each took a glass, raising it.  
  
“Cheers” – Iwaizumi clinked his glass against Akaashi’s – “and well done to us for getting through the day.” He took several large gulps and with a satisfied sigh, firmly placed the glass on the table. “What a day.”  
  
Akaashi swallowed a modest mouthful of beer. “I’m still surprised by your association.”  
  
“Association? Oh, what – me and Oi—” Iwaizumi glanced to the tables either side – one with an older couple and the other a group of four men and women in suits; he turned back to Akaashi. “We go back a long way. Don’t really see much of each other – he’s got a lot on his plate – but I have an insider who keeps me in the loop. Maybe you did his ink – full bodied art, guardian dogs on his back.”  
  
Akaashi instantly knew who Iwaizumi was talking about – cropped blond hair, two black stripes along the side, a menacing glare that seemed a permanent fixture on his face – he had been particularly memorable.  
  
“It was an absolute pleasure working on him – he didn’t flinch once throughout the sessions even on the most sensitive areas, and aside from that specific request, he readily entrusted his body to me to do as I pleased.”  
  
Iwaizumi chuckled into his glass as he brought it to his lips. “You really have a way with words, you know that?” Shaking his head and the last of his laugh along with it, he took a swig.  
  
Akaashi mentally repeated the sentence he had spoken, and he wasn’t able to pinpoint what part of it was so funny. “I merely said what I was thinking.”  
  
“Yeah, I know. It’s refreshing to hear someone speak their mind.” Iwaizumi put his glass down held his gaze onto Akaashi. “I like that about you.”  
  
His words struck Akaashi, the rawness reflected in those dark brown eyes, and he had a flashback of their first encounter. Thinking about it now—  
  
“If I remember correctly, you weren’t so keen on my forwardness when we first met.”  
  
Iwaizumi blinked and looked aside in reflection. “Uh… yeah, guess you’re right. Well, I didn’t say it didn’t take some getting used to.” Once again he returned his gaze to Akaashi. “But you know—”  
  
“Perhaps we should place an order first.” Akaashi pulled out the menu from the stand, opening it to face Iwaizumi. “What would you like to try?”  
  
They went through the lists, choosing the more common dishes – edamame, a selection of cucumber and pickles, yakitori, squid – and then Akaashi ordered his favourite, and Iwaizumi also found his favourite, and it wasn’t long before they were picking at the foods while they conversed.  
  
Whether it was due to the room filled with babbles and laughter, the stomach gradually being sated, or the bubbling effect of alcohol, Iwaizumi was looser with his emotions, his sharp scrutiny replaced with gentle intrigue, the hard lines growing lax. This again reminded Akaashi of his handsome features, his natural strength quietly emanating; Akaashi could stare at him all day and not grow bored.  
  
And over the course of their meal, their customer-retailer relationship blossomed into friendship. They talked about the flower shop—  
  
“You know I could make weekly drop-offs to your place so you’d get the flowers fresh in the morning as soon as they arrive.”  
  
“Really, you don’t need to go out of your way, the flower shop is en route from the grocers and other stores and a few hours won’t make a significant difference.”  
  
And also about hand carving—  
  
“If you’ve got photos of your art, I’d like to see them sometime.”  
  
“All the photographs with consent have been placed on the website, there’s quite a collection to browse through.”  
  
From everyday topics—  
  
“Nanohana goes well with agedashi tofu.”  
  
“I’m sure they taste perfectly fine together, but I prefer to eat nanohana on its own, I feel an additional ingredient would disrupt its core taste.”  
  
To ones more personal—  
  
“So what do you usually look for in a guy then?”  
  
“While I’m not picky about a person’s character, past interests and relationships have taught me I grow attracted to men with loud personalities, loud hairstyles, loud dress-senses and who are overall just very… loud.”  
  
They left the izakaya a couple of hours later, Akaashi paying for the entire meal while Iwaizumi went to the restroom (because he felt responsible for the earlier incident); for some reason this put Iwaizumi in a sullen mood, a dark cloud hanging over them as they walked in quiet and a downpour threatening to break loose to soggy their dampening spirits.  
  
Akaashi stole a glance – Iwaizumi’s face was set once more to serious.  
  
Iwaizumi pulled ahead as they approached the flower shop, coming to a halt at the front door and pulling out his keys. Akaashi could hear the scrape of metal on metal, disrupted by an even rhythm of clink… clink…  
  
Iwaizumi turned. “I want us to get to know each other better. I want to get to know you better. Because I like you.”  
  
Akaashi considered his words, then smiled up at him; Iwaizumi pulled himself up straight, brightness appearing between the crack in his overcast.  
  
“What an odd coincidence, I was thinking the same thing. We could try some of the other places, and you could meet the other locals in the area, they’re all wonderful people—”  
  
With a soft and somewhat pained groan, Iwaizumi buried his face in his hands, then ran his hands slowly down his face.  
  
“I didn’t mean tonight,” Akaashi added quickly. “I’m sure you must be tired after being on your feet all day. Perhaps we can make it a regular occurrence?”  
  
“A regular occurrence,” Iwaizumi repeated hollowly, dropping his arms. He nodded, slowly, in understanding. “Yeah… okay. I can do that.”  
  
Akaashi felt like he had missed something as Iwaizumi’s back was to him again, hearing a scrape of key and lock (and a murmur that sounded strangely like ‘baby steps’), a click and clatter to enter the darkened room; the light from the lamppost outside outlined the flowers in slivers of silver-white.  
  
Iwaizumi went towards the counter, dropping off the keys on his way to flicking the switch on the back wall and the lights blinked sleepily on.  
  
“It won’t take long,” Iwaizumi threw the comment – a little roughly, Akaashi felt – as he walked past back to the window where the tulips were displayed.  
  
Akaashi stayed by the counter, sensing that Iwaizumi may want some space – it crossed his mind that his sullen mood may have been due to remembering the abrupt and tragic end to his earlier bouquet.  
  
He decided to fill the darkness with a topic he knew Iwaizumi would enjoy. “Tulips must be in high demand this season. I have to say, I’ve not yet had the opportunity to use one in any of my designs. What do they symbolise?”  
  
The silence was drawn out long enough for Akaashi to think about rephrasing the question, even though he was sure Iwaizumi must have heard—  
  
“Love.” Iwaizumi pulled a red tulip out of its container. “Red for declaration.”  
  
He pulled out one pink. “Blooming.”  
  
Orange. “Shy.”  
  
Green. “Beautiful eyes.”  
  
Purple. “Everlasting—”  
  
Iwaizumi pulled out a white tulip. “This one’s love lost. But recently people have been turning that around to mean a fresh start.” He pushed it into the bundle in his hand and drew out the final – yellow – twirling it thoughtfully between finger and thumb. “And yellow’s unrequited.”  
  
“That’s surprising, considering yellow represents joy.”  
  
“No one really knows why. But in the West you find yellow linked to negative emotions. Cowardice. Deceit. Betrayal. Envy. I told you before, flower language changes depending on the area. Changes from person to person.”  
  
Iwaizumi approached the counter and took a sheet of the plain tissue, rolling it around the stems.  
  
“In that case, I think I’ll associate yellow tulips with love hopeful.”  
  
Iwaizumi paused to look at him. “Why’s that?”  
  
“Tulips are a spring flower; it goes against their nature to have them represent a negative emotion. I also have an image of them being childlike and innocent and filled with excitement, though that may be to do with the fact that I was placed in the yellow tulip group in pre-school.” Akaashi looked down at the tulips – one colour of each. “I suppose you think my reasoning to be childish and naïve.”  
  
“I think flowers can mean whatever you want them to mean.”  
  
Akaashi glanced up, to be greeted again with that soft look Iwaizumi had before, though this time his mouth was set to what could clearly be called a smile. Iwaizumi dropped his attention to continue wrapping the flowers.  
  
“Be honest with me, Akaashi. Do you still think about carving a design onto me?”  
  
Akaashi hesitated.  
  
He hadn’t mentioned anything related to carving in some time, and he quickly reviewed their evening to confirm that he hadn’t brought up the topic. The fact that it was Iwaizumi asking meant that he must have an interest.  
  
But Akaashi knew he couldn’t get ahead of himself. He took a moment to calm his speeding pulse.  
  
“As you insist on honesty… every time I see you, I’m afraid I can’t stop myself from imagining how you would look with my art permanently embedded into your skin.”  
  
Iwaizumi held the bouquet out to Akaashi – which Akaashi took, drawing it close to his chest. He looked up, finding Iwaizumi crossing his arms and resting them on the counter – and then hanging his head.  
  
Frantically Akaashi scrambled for the words to correct his mistake, if only he knew which part of what he said had been wrong—  
  
Iwaizumi raised his head. “Show me the design.”  
  
Akaashi widened his eyes. “Are you—”  
  
“I’m saying I’ll think about it. It’s not like the thought of getting inked hadn’t ever crossed my mind, you know what circle I run in.”  
  
“It wouldn’t be very large, and of course placed inconspicuously so it wouldn’t interfere with your work,” Akaashi reeled off, words tumbling out, almost stumbling against one another. “I’ve thought very hard about what might suit you, although if there’s any part of the design you don’t like, please point it out – even the whole design itself, I’d be willing to start from scratch – I was thinking if you could place it—”  
  
“Akaashi—” Iwaizumi raised his hand; Akaashi stopped – closed his mouth. “I said I’ll think about it. And I trust you and your work. Draw it out, give it to me, I’ll take a look and let you know.”  
  
Akaashi felt himself beaming. “Iwaizumi-san. You will not regret this.”  
  
Iwaizumi replied with a defeated grin. “I really hope you’re right.”


	4. ✾

Today, standing in front of the counter at the flower shop, Akaashi wasn’t facing Iwaizumi.  
  
He wasn’t even facing a florist.  
  
Today, as he held the pristine piece of paper – placed inside a clear file folder and held in both hands all the way from his home to the flower shop for fear of losing it – with lines that had been carefully drawn throughout the night and into the early hours of the morning, Akaashi was facing a client. A _potential_ client. This was a sales pitch. A sales pitch of a lifetime.  
  
He placed the design facing said potential client carefully onto the counter.  
  
“This is the final piece.”  
  
Iwaizumi lowered his head, his expression concealed.  
  
“Explain it to me.”  
  
Akaashi took a preparatory breath, a little shaky, and pointed to the topmost line.  
  
“From the top is a stream flowing down in the same way you would see flowing down the slope of a mountain forest” – blank vertical lines sliced down along the navy water, curving and swooping and animating the current – “beside it the Acanthus spike is growing tall” – purplish umbrella-like bracts shielded the white inflorescence biting into the stream, dark green stems and leaves curling like a part of the water except at the base, where the spiked leaves fanned outwards. “In Japanese flower language it is often depicted to mean ‘art’ or ‘artifice’, both I think to be suitable representations of your character – the art because of the graceful manner in which you arrange your flowers, and the artifice not because you go out of your way to deceive, but because you have a hidden layer that tricks people into underestimating you.  
  
“There is an additional mythical yet slightly sombre meaning. It is said that the pattern of the Acanthus flower was popularly used in Ancient Roman and Greek architecture; a Greek architect and sculptor became inspired after seeing the plant growing around the grave of a young girl. And then during my search, I discovered your birthday falls on the date of Alexander the Great’s death. I realise death isn’t what one wishes to associate with their birth, but the mythical aspect – the statement of immortality – takes that theme and births it into something greater – just like the ‘start’ of your given name. Indeed legends were born, remembered throughout history until the present, and will continue to be onwards long into the future.  
  
“Everything about the design is unconventional – no – _unique_ , much like yourself, your job of working with what grows aboveground alongside your personal connections to society underground, your gentle touches when you handle the delicate flowers compared to your firm grip powerful enough to overthrow the strongest of all persons. I would call it… a hybrid of traditions and contradictions.”  
  
Akaashi glanced to Iwaizumi to find he hadn’t moved, and quickly returned to the paper.  
  
“I wondered about its placement,” Akaashi continued on, tracing the long lines up and down again. “I decided you wouldn’t be open to having it anywhere visible, so what I recommend is your torso. More specifically the left side – I know this is not an accurate positioning of the heart, but it is common to place one’s hand over the left to swear an oath, and it is where its beat is more strongly felt.”  
  
At seeing a shift of movement, Akaashi glanced up again, and he could see his face now, set neutral, eyes moving to trace over the lines.  
  
“There will be areas where the pain will be hard to endure” - Akaashi was unable to stop himself blabbering to fill in the silence - “the shoulders, chest, ribs – all are extremely sensitive areas. The area immediately around the nipple especially, some consider that to be one of the most painful parts of the body.”  
  
Akaashi bit down on his bottom lip giving his mouth something else to do than give Iwaizumi a reason not to have himself inked, and waited for the verdict.  
  
Iwaizumi flicked a glance at him. “This is your idea of not large,” he said levelly.  
  
With his lower body blocked by the counter and out of sight, Akaashi began to firmly rub the fingers of his right hand. “I… admit I may have made an understatement. I tried to think of smaller designs and drafted many versions – in the end this was what I determined to be the best expression of… you.”  
  
Iwaizumi picked up the sheet with a loud exhale through his nose and brought it up to eye-height for closer inspection.  
  
“If it isn’t to your liking I can think of something else.” As much as it would pain Akaashi to scrap the design, he would never pressure anyone into getting something they didn’t like. “I would like to reiterate that it is a permanent statement and your decision should be rock solid.”  
  
“Is that a pun?”  
  
“It’s the truth.”  
  
“Coming from you, I believe it.”  
  
Iwaizumi ran a hand through his hair, scratched the back of his head, and released his hold on his hair along with another long exhale; he put the sheet down on the counter. Akaashi wished he had brought his hand cream with him to at least attempt concealing his nerves.  
  
“If you would like to get a better idea of how it might look, you’re always welcome to drop in so I can draw the lines directly onto you. I could also explain the procedure and introduce you to all the tools and colours I would be using—”  
  
“Give me some time to think about it,” Iwaizumi finally said, folding his arms. “I’ll let you know when I’ve made up my mind.”  
  
“Please take as long as you need.” Akaashi gave a short bow of his head. “I’m afraid I won’t be buying anything from you today as the flowers are still very fresh, so I’ll leave you to your work. But before I do, could I… ask for your initial impression?”  
  
Their eyes met and Akaashi stilled his hands.  
  
“Let’s put it this way… I’m not the only one with a sharp eye.”

* * * * * * * * *

Three days passed since leaving the design with Iwaizumi. Akaashi had no excuse to visit, and in a way he was grateful – he imagined if he entered the flower shop now, Iwaizumi might consider him to be pushing for an answer when Akaashi really was genuine about giving him time and space to think.  
  
With a small sigh Akaashi resumed tending to his tools as he waited for his final appointment in the last available spot before closing.  
  
Still, it didn’t stop him from wanting to see Iwaizumi’s reactions and make guesses as to the direction towards which his decision leaned.  
  
No, there was no point guessing when it wouldn’t be a definitive answer. People changed minds at the very last second. Just like Bokuto.  
  
Akaashi heard the familiar rattle from the door – quiet, respectful, and the second rattle of the door so gentle he didn’t hear the clack of wood on wood as it closed. He promptly put aside his work and went through to the front—  
  
He stopped short at the doorway—  
  
“Oikawa-san.”  
  
“Akaashi-chan,” Oikawa said brightly with his default smile, soft and smug, as though he held a library of secrets on each and every person. “You look well.”  
  
“As do you.” Akaashi straightened his back, held his head tall, and came to rest his hands on the counter. “I’m afraid I won’t be able to talk for very long, I have a client—”  
  
“I came to tell you Yahaba-chan had a sudden engagement and can no longer make it.”  
  
Coming up to Akaashi, Oikawa pulled something out from his inside pocket – a white envelope with a thin turquoise vine along one end– placing it onto the counter and sliding it towards him. “And also to compensate for the sudden vacancy.”  
  
“Oikawa-san, you don’t—”  
  
“Yes, Akaashi-chan, I do. You really should introduce a cancellation policy, you’re not doing yourself any favours.” Oikawa glanced at the cat statue. “Maybe you can use the money to get yourself new decor.”  
  
“It has sentimental value,” Akaashi said, suddenly defensive over the ugly statue when it sat defenceless against the ruthless glare. “I’m very attached to it despite its quirky features.”  
  
Oikawa hummed, unconvinced, and with deliberately slow steps walked over to the painting; he leaned forward, inspecting the Aosagibi, a legendary night heron illuminated in blue.  
  
“Akaashi-chan, you know I respect you and your work. You behave fairly and treat each person with the respect they deserve. You have an outstanding arm and I’m proud to see your art decorating my people.”  
  
“You kindly said the same the previous two times—”  
  
“What are your intentions with Iwaizumi Hajime?”  
  
Akaashi was surprised to hear Iwaizumi’s name pop up – and then he remembered what had taken place last week, and the relationship between the two men, and then the design he had passed over to Iwaizumi, and the reason for this visit fell into place.  
  
“If Iwaizumi-san agrees, I would like to carve his body. With no disrespect to your people, his physique is unlike any I have ever seen. I merely wish to draw out his character with my art.”  
  
“I saw the design. It suited him.” Oikawa slid a side-glance onto him. “He said you were thinking of carving it down his body.”  
  
“I thought it best – I don’t wish to complicate his business when certain people may become apprehensive seeing such an open display of ink.”  
  
“Why bother to ink when no one else would know it exists?”  
  
“There are many reasons for a person to ink themselves. Of course some people like to display it like one would art in a museum. However, sometimes it is a personal reminder only for the eyes of the owner, or people close to them.”  
  
Although Oikawa did raise a good point. Akaashi wanted to see Iwaizumi turn into a masterpiece, and he wanted to see his design on his skin. Would it defeat the point if no one else would see his work? He took a moment to imagine Iwaizumi topless with his new design inked into him, and other people examining the beauty of his art on Iwaizumi’s form – or perhaps that should be his art on the beauty that is Iwaizumi’s form?  
  
The more Akaashi considered, the more he didn’t like the idea of other people ogling. It was a personal design, not one that should be exposed with reckless abandon.  
  
So then, why bother indeed when no one else would know it exists—  
  
“I will know it exists.”  
  
Oikawa huffed a laugh. “That’s adorable. I heard you had dinner together the other day.”  
  
Akaashi was a little surprised at the turn in conversation. “Yes, and we agreed we would like to meet outside of work regularly so that we learn more about each other.”  
  
“And what about after dinner?”  
  
“I suppose if Iwaizumi-san is in agreement we could further our evening by relocating to a different bar or izakaya for drinks—”  
  
“I’m talking more along the lines of… dessert.”  
  
“Oh, I see. I certainly wouldn’t be against the idea, though I don’t usually go that far. But if Iwaizumi-san expresses an interest then I wouldn’t say no. It might be a welcome change, actually. What kind of dessert does Iwaizumi-san like?”  
  
Oikawa looked at him curiously. “What do you think he likes?”  
  
“Nothing extravagant, and leaning towards conventional. If he likes agedashi tofu… adzuki beans or matcha.”  
  
“What are you—” Oikawa began to laugh out loud. “No, no, no, Akaashi-chan, I’m talking about the other kind of dessert.”  
  
That reminded Akaashi of Kuroo. What was it with people and vague wordings? “Are you talking about western variations? Then perhaps cheesecake—”  
  
The laughter fell flat. “Are you mocking me?”  
  
Akaashi blinked and shook his head quickly. “I apologise if anything I just said was offensive.”  
  
Oikawa’s scrutiny had Akaashi clasp his hands behind his back, kneading his fingers. He felt like he had just avoided a blade thrown at his neck, and though he no longer felt his life was under immediate threat, the earlier weapon could always boomerang and stab him in the back.  
  
“I think I see why he’s doing this.”  
  
Oikawa ambled back to the counter to stand tall – only slightly, but tall enough for him to establish authority. Akaashi looked down at his clothes – a black coat over a navy suit measured to fit to the millimetre, a businessman with impeccable taste to anyone who had no idea of his true identity.  
  
Akaashi quickly brought his wandering gaze to eye-level – he didn’t want to come across as though he was sizing him up.  
  
“Akaashi-chan, you have this natural ability to make even the most sensible of people lose their common sense. Polite, candid, perceptive – mostly, on things that matter – I wouldn’t mind having someone like you in my employment.”  
  
While it was flattering to hear these words coming from the leader of Seijoh, it was mixed with the mad scramble to find the right words to graciously decline the potential job offer—  
  
“Don’t worry, I won’t put you in a compromising position.” Oikawa checked his watch. “I want you to know you’re very firmly in my good books.”  
  
“Thank you.”  
  
“And I can rely on you to do the right thing.”  
  
“I always do my best.”  
  
“And I want you to remember that Iwa-chan is a very dear friend of mine.”  
  
“Yes, Iwaizumi-san said you’ve known each other for a long time. I sensed his fondness for you when he spoke of you.” Despite some of the more blunt word choices to describe Oikawa, which Akaashi tactfully left out.  
  
“Of course he would, I’m charming.”  
  
Akaashi gripped his right hand tight, nails digging into his skin.  
  
“As long as you’re aware, I don’t have anything to worry about.” Oikawa leaned in. “I’ll let you in on a secret – he was very enthusiastic about the design, prattling on about flower language and Greek legends, which I’m a little envious about – back when we were at school together I told him about Alexander the Great – my birthday falls on his birthday, you see – and he hadn’t even remembered.”  
  
Akaashi opened his mouth to form an apology—  
  
“Between you and me, I think he’ll agree.”  
  
“Really?” Akaashi blurted, forgetting for a second who he was talking to.  
  
“Absolutely. I’m looking forward to seeing it on him, I always said he would look amazing dressed in ink.” Oikawa pulled back. “I won’t keep you any longer, I’ve said all I needed to say. And Yahaba-chan will be making an appointment soon, so please take care of him.” With a nod of his head, Oikawa added, “Have a good evening, Akaashi-chan.”  
  
“And you as well, Oikawa-san.” Akaashi stepped around the counter and bowed low.  
  
He slipped on his sandals and followed Oikawa as he stepped outside, keeping a respectful distance between them—  
  
“Oh, one tiny thing.”  
  
Akaashi stopped at the doorway as Oikawa turned.  
  
“This appointment of ours—”  
  
Oikawa smiled, light from the shop casting sinister shadows to his features.  
  
“Don’t let Iwa-chan know.”

* * * * * * * * *

One phone call nine days later was all it took for Akaashi to lose his grip over his emotions. It was a miracle he managed to pull through the day, barely able to concentrate on his work, though thankfully he regained ahold of himself with a hold on the long handle, facing bare skin. The back-to-back sessions with an extended hour on the fourth were enough to keep his mind preoccupied from the final appointment.  
  
In the hour’s break beforehand, he arranged and rearranged his tools on the desk, lining them up neatly, swapping their order around, checking the roughs of his design—  
  
(Swelling with pride, and then contemplating tearing them all to shreds.)  
  
He wiped down the bed and glanced at the clock to find he still had half an hour remaining. He repeated the process all over again.  
  
(He was relieved that Kuroo hadn’t made an appointment. Kuroo who tended to book a session in the evening, who would likely have been quick to catch there was something different about Akaashi, and who would have stayed during the hour’s break watching Akaashi while toying with him between his paws, occasionally extending a claw to pick at him for details until Iwaizumi’s arrival, and then doing the same to him; one of two outcomes would await – Iwaizumi answering with careful politeness until Kuroo realised he could get no information and leave, or Iwaizumi rolling up his sleeves and head-butting him into oblivion.)  
  
Akaashi heard the familiar rattle ten minutes before the promised time and rushed out before the door had finished sliding open.  
  
“Good evening, Iwaizumi-san, please come through.”  
  
If Iwaizumi heard the desperation in his tone, he didn’t let on, replying with a quiet ‘evening and taking his shoes off at the raised flooring.  
  
Akaashi led Iwaizumi to the back to the heavy rhythm in his chest; he had believed he would calm down once seeing him, and instead his excitement doubled.  
  
Akaashi gestured to the bed. “Please make yourself comfortable.”  
  
Iwaizumi seated himself, leaning onto his thighs and clasping his hands as he took in the room; Akaashi went to his desk.  
  
With his back to him, Akaashi took a deep breath and reminded himself to be professional. This was a consultation. Iwaizumi was a client no different from the rest. He gripped the tray of tools and went to place them beside Iwaizumi, then seated himself down on his chair.  
  
Akaashi explained the use of his tools in more depth, showed the inks he would be using, his code of practice, the general flow of a session – all the while gauging Iwaizumi’s reaction, which was composed, taking in all his words with the occasional interjection to clarify.  
  
On the phone, Iwaizumi had said he was leaning towards getting the carving, though he wanted to hear the full details and see how it might look on him. Akaashi would be lying if he said he didn’t feel disappointed, he would have preferred to hear a definitive yes. However, he was also realistic. Two weeks was still early for making such a big decision and the knowledge that Iwaizumi was thinking of the carving in a positive light was enough for him to keep his hopes raised.  
  
When everything had been described, there was only one part remaining.  
  
“Would you like to see how you would look wearing this design?”  
  
Iwaizumi sat, tapping his fingers on the backs of his clasped hands.  
  
“Sure. Show me how I’ll look.”  
  
Akaashi shuffled to his desk to put his tools away, giving Iwaizumi privacy – which was a front, Akaashi was trying to compose himself, feeling like he was turning into Bokuto, and he couldn’t allow Iwaizumi to see him this way or he may have doubts on whether Akaashi was the right person for the job.  
  
Professional, he reminded himself, and then remembered Oikawa’s visit. Iwaizumi was essentially a member of Seijoh.  
  
That sobered him up significantly.  
  
“You want me to lie down?”  
  
“If you would.”  
  
He heard the shift of plastic under Iwaizumi’s weight and then it was quiet.  
  
With a marker in hand, he checked the design on the desk once more – unnecessarily. He already knew each swish of current, each point on every leaf and petal.  
  
Akaashi turned to face the project of his lifetime—  
  
He sucked in a quiet breath.  
  
The glimpses he had seen so far to Iwaizumi’s body was nothing compared to what was spread before him.  
  
Akaashi wanted to run his hand down along Iwaizumi’s neck and place his hand on top of the pectoral muscles to feel their tightness; he would trace that perfect curve with his thumb, graze his nipple – so soft in comparison – to confirm the one area he wouldn’t allow the needles to touch. He wanted to lightly drag his fingers along to his centre, to feel his pulse flutter beneath his fingertips. Iwaizumi appeared stockier – and softer – as he lay stationary on the bed, although the faint definitions suggested there was more to him than met the eye.  
  
“Iwaizumi-san, could you flex your muscles,” Akaashi asked quietly, eyes not leaving his chest.  
  
“Uh – is that… necessary?”  
  
“I’m trying to imagine how my art will fare under stress.”  
  
Iwaizumi mumbled incoherent words chopped and messily strung together, and tensed his body.  
  
The definitions of his abdominal muscles ran deeper than expected on a florist. Some people may have described this sight as ‘flaunting’ – they would be wrong. It was an exhibition of strength that was a warning to anyone who dared raise a finger against him and those he loved, a warning that he would crush them – but wouldn’t; he would need only to release a single crack to send them wailing, never to return.  
  
And to any fortunate individual granted permission to touch, his body was a source of comfort, bearing any and all weight with ease and never used to exert himself beyond boundaries, his power always in full control. Even on the brink of losing himself, facing temptation to let emotions loose and rush ahead, he would reign himself back and keep pace.  
  
(Or else yield completely; Akaashi could imagine muscles flexing and relaxing under his splayed hand as forceful thrusts sunk deep to make their mark, a part of himself forever dyed into the innermost layer.)  
  
And then his Adonis belt that travelled down past his belt line—  
  
Akaashi swallowed.  
  
Akaashi brought his gaze back up, traced the lines of his design across his skin, around the muscles trying to find the right curves, and—  
  
He couldn’t find one.  
  
He tried shifting the lines around, manipulating the shape of the water, the plant, and whenever he thought he found a solution, another line would stick ungraciously out of place, his mind rushing to correct the new mar only to find somewhere else that would protrude or twist—  
  
His design wouldn’t work.  
  
He tried to imagine other flowers – the pale and more delicate jasmine, the bright ruffles of sweet William, the chrysanthemum he had so readily dismissed, all to no avail.  
  
So he replaced them, with other subjects living – animals, gods, demons – running through the list—  
  
Nothing.  
  
“Iwaizumi-san.” Akaashi continued dart his eyes over his chest, knowing there had to be something. “How keen are you to have yourself carved?”  
  
“I wouldn’t be getting it done if I didn’t want it done.”  
  
“But how strong is your desire?”  
  
Iwaizumi raised himself up onto his elbows – those beautiful, dangerous lines reappeared. “I don’t do things half-assed, Akaashi.”  
  
“Yes, but is it as strong as your passion towards the flowers?”  
  
A pause. “I’d say so—”  
  
Akaashi’s eyes snapped onto him. “There’s hesitation, Iwaizumi-san. You’re lying.”  
  
Iwaizumi pushed himself all the way to sitting up. “What’s going on? You’re acting off—”  
  
“I can’t allow you to get yourself carved this way.”  
  
Iwaizumi’s face didn’t twitch, but the air around him swept like a gust to swallow the earlier embarrassment.  
  
“Why?”  
  
The single word cleared the flashing images into blank.  
  
“You’re the one who’s been at it from day one to try and get me to agree, and now that I’ve made up my mind you’re telling me you’re refusing?”  
  
“I hadn’t seen—”  
  
“Oh, so my body’s not good enough for you, is that it?”  
  
“That’s not—”  
  
“Then what?!”  
  
Akaashi couldn’t form the words to convince Iwaizumi, because his mind provided none.  
  
Iwaizumi pushed himself up—  
  
Akaashi took a step back from the quietly seething embodiment of rage – under complete control, he knew this, but Iwaizumi had yet to grant permission, had yet to offer Akaashi the freedom to placate and console, and Akaashi knew stepping into his personal boundary would be like stepping headfirst into a squall.  
  
“I get it. You saw me strip off my shirt, realised I’m not what you imagined, and now you don’t have the perfect ‘canvas’ for your ‘perfect’ design.”  
  
“That is far from the truth—”  
  
“Then why, Akaashi! You just humili—” Iwaizumi clamped his mouth shut and looked off to the side. A sharp sigh later he was back to facing Akaashi. “You’re messing me around and you don’t even realise.”  
  
Iwaizumi pulled his shirt back on, which was left hanging open while he grabbed his jacket and headed to the door.  
  
“Iwaizumi-san—”  
  
Iwaizumi turned at the doorway, gripping the frame. “Come talk to me when you can tell me what all” – he waved his hand between them – “what all _this_ means to you. Because unless I know, I can’t – there’s no point in me—”  
  
Iwaizumi’s fingers clenched around the wood; shaking his head, he disappeared from the room.  
  
The first slide of the door was smooth with a hard smack, the second a bumpy rattle ending with a clack, and Akaashi stood with blood throbbing in his ears, staring at the aftermath – serene and chillingly bare.  
  
He had ruined his chances. And he didn’t even know how.

Long after Akaashi lay down in his bed, and shortly after he ordered his mind to lay the evening’s devastation to rest and resume picking up the debris in the morning, his eyelids snapped open, and he stared at the dark-blurred panelled ceiling.  
  
How could he have been so blind? Always, the simplest and most obvious answer was overlooked.  
  
“Roses,” he said aloud to the night.


	5. ❁

Akaashi had never felt so intimidated by a man shorter as he stood in front of Iwaizumi, the counter separating them firmly as customer and retailer, Iwaizumi’s firm muscles from his folded arms threatening to lash out at the first wrong word.  
  
“Iwaizumi-san, I would like to apologise for my behaviour last night. It wasn’t my place to question your reasons or your decisions, and I was pushing my own opinions onto you. Regarding your request to clarify, I would like to ask for time to organise my thoughts.”  
  
Motionless. Akaashi wondered what other words he could attach to the end without them sounding redundant—  
  
“You gave me time to think about the hand carving. Seems only fair I give you time about… this.” Iwaizumi dropped his defensive stance. “But I’m not waiting forever.”  
  
“I don’t expect you to. I require only a month.”

* * * * * * * * *

It was an excruciatingly long month, even for someone who was used to splitting a request into sessions spanning over several weeks before the final piece was revealed. But the wait was necessary, even as Iwaizumi’s tone grew a touch barbed.  
  
Akaashi still visited the flower shop, once for research (chrysanthemum again, a single stem), and the rest bouquets, choice and arrangement left to Iwaizumi. Their interactions were minimal – questions on well-being, the purpose of the visit, Akaashi thanking Iwaizumi for his services and Iwaizumi telling Akaashi to look after himself – bare, like winter branches.  
  
But buds were growing with the warming weather, Akaashi could feel it, ready to bloom on the fateful date circled on his calendar, free of appointments and engagements. All the necessary preparations had been made for the day to be smooth running. The final variable that would allow his plan to succeed: Iwaizumi himself.

* * * * * * * * *

On the first Sunday of May, Akaashi rushed to the flower shop – glancing through the window to find Iwaizumi already inside watering plants – and went up to the front door, rapping on the glass, a noise too loud and insistent for early morning. Then again, it was a matter of urgency. Iwaizumi turned at the noise, watering can in hand, using his free hand to gesture to kill the sound.  
  
He then walked over and pointed to the sign that hung centre of the window—  
  
_Closed.  
  
_“I really must speak with you,” Akaashi said loudly.  
  
Iwaizumi pulled a face, then fumbled around the handle; a click and the door opened.  
  
“There’s nothing urgent enough to justify you buying flowers at six in the morning,” Iwaizumi grumbled, voice raw and thick with remnants of sleep. “Or you got another reason for being here?”  
  
“I would first like to purchase flowers before I address that question.”  
  
“Figures.” Iwaizumi walked away, leaving the door open. “Come on through.”  
  
Akaashi followed him to the counter, waiting for him to put the can down and stand in his usual position to serve.  
  
“So. What do you want?”  
  
“I would like to buy all the flowers you currently have available for sale.”  
  
Iwaizumi stared at him blankly. For a good ten seconds at least, if Akaashi’s guess was correct. Akaashi thought maybe his brain had yet to awaken properly and opened his mouth—  
  
“If you say they’re for me, I’m not selling.”  
  
“Oh.” Akaashi looked aside; he didn’t think his request would be refused.  
  
“Do you seriously think buying flowers is going to solve this? You’re not impressing anyone, least of all me – what am I supposed to do with a house full of flowers? I’m not turning my own living space into a shop, no matter how much I like them.”  
  
Akaashi took a moment to consider this point and – he frowned. “What you’re supposed to do?”  
  
Iwaizumi mirrored his frown, faint, uneasy lines between those of confusion. “Isn’t that why you want to buy out the shop? You said you’d buy out the whole store to impress someone, so I gathered you were trying to buy all the flowers. To give. To me. Because of what happened.”  
  
Akaashi considered Iwaizumi’s reasoning. “I think you misunderstand me again. I wish to buy the flowers for myself.”  
  
Iwaizumi looked away, the frown deepening, and Akaashi hoped it would soon clear along with the mess that had been created.  
  
Iwaizumi glanced back up.  
  
“For you.”  
  
“That’s right.”  
  
“You said they’re for me.”  
  
“I think you’ll find you said you wouldn’t be selling them if I said, ‘they’re for me’. I merely exclaimed an ‘oh’ in disappointment.”  
  
“I said, ‘they’re for—’” Iwaizumi shook his head. “That’s not what I meant. Just – answer the questions. Who’re they for?”  
  
“Me.”  
  
“Where are they being delivered to?”  
  
“My home.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
“So you can close for the day.”  
  
“What do you mean, ‘so I can close—’”  
  
“Hey, hey, hey!”  
  
Akaashi had been expecting to hear the familiar greeting, though not for another ten minutes. Turning, he bowed his head at the man waving, striding up to the counter far too bright and enthusiastic for any morning, followed closely by another slinking behind with a lazy wave of his fingers more suited to the shadows of night.  
  
“What’re you two doing here?” Iwaizumi said.  
  
Akaashi glanced back to Iwaizumi. “I didn’t realise you were acquainted with them.”  
  
“One’s a regular, the other’s…”  
  
“A concerned member of the local community,” drawled Kuroo. “Though seems like my concern won’t be needed much longer. Isn’t that right, Akaashi?”  
  
“ _You_ know them?” Iwaizumi asked Akaashi.  
  
“Kuroo-san and Bokuto-san are both old friends.”  
  
“ _Valuable, reliable, caring_ friends, Akaashi—”  
  
“We’re here to carry all the flowers to Akaashi’s place!” Bokuto held a hand out to Akaashi. “Have you got the key?”  
  
Akaashi pulled the spare key from his pocket and placed it in the centre of his palm. “I’m very grateful for you doing this, Bokuto-san, Kuroo-san.”  
  
“Hold on a second,” Iwaizumi interrupted, “I haven’t agreed to selling anything—”  
  
“Why?” Bokuto asked. “Akaashi’s buying the whole shop!”  
  
“Yeah, why would anyone want to turn down such an amazing business opportunity?” Kuroo added, widening his grin.  
  
Akaashi looked expectantly at Iwaizumi, whose mouth was hanging open as he searched for a reply.  
  
“You know what, fine, you buy out the shop. But it doesn’t give me an excuse to leave it, I’ve got orders to be picked up and dropped off, and someone might call me—”  
  
“Iwa-chan!”  
  
Iwaizumi slid his gaze off Akaashi back to the door. “You have got to be kidding me.”  
  
Akaashi turned – surprised only by seeing the leader of Seijoh without his business suit and in an attire to imitate an employee of the flower shop.  
  
“What’re you doing here?!” Iwaizumi yelled. “Why are you dressed like you work here?!”  
  
“You sound far too grumpy for a bright and beautiful Sunday morning,” Oikawa tutted and shook his head like he was dealing with a lost cause while he strode up to them. “Akaashi-chan asked for my help, and as a concerned member of the local community—”  
  
“Hang on” – Iwaizumi pointed to Kuroo – “isn’t that what he just said—”  
  
“They became acquainted yesterday,” Akaashi provided helpfully.  
  
“—I couldn’t leave a troubled person to face their problems by their lonesome!”  
  
“You couldn’t leave a—” Iwaizumi turned to Akaashi, though he was pointing his finger at Oikawa. “Are you telling me you now owe him a favour? _Are you out of your mind_ —”  
  
Using the back of his hand, Oikawa steered Iwaizumi’s finger from his face. “Before you start marring my name, you should know that he actually cashed in the favour I owe him.”  
  
Iwaizumi shot a glare, flapping Oikawa’s hand away. “You don’t do favours. What did you ask for in exchange, blackmail material on one of his clients?”  
  
“You’re so rude, I can’t believe you think that badly of me! I’ll have you know, a few years ago someone new to the group treated Akaashi disrespectfully, and I offered a onetime pass for him to make any request, so long as it was within my power to grant it to him. It was an act of apology, because I have manners, and class, and principles.”  
  
Closing his eyes, Iwaizumi rubbed his temples. “I’m going to regret asking this, but” – he cracked open one eye – “why are you here?”  
  
“Because I’m going to look after the shop in your place!”  
  
Iwaizumi’s other eye snapped open. “I’m not agreeing to that.”  
  
“That’s unfortunate for you because I already spoke to Hanaishi-san and she said—” Oikawa cleared his throat. “‘That’s a wonderful idea! I had been so worried he was overworking himself since starting his new job.’”  
  
“Hey, that actually sounds like her!” Bokuto said, turning to Kuroo. “He even got that little warble in her voice right!”  
  
Kuroo nodded and patted him on the shoulder.  
  
And then Iwaizumi turned to Akaashi with an accusing stare, as though everything was his fault.

Which, admittedly, it had been, but Iwaizumi had agreed in the end – begrudgingly, endnote after endnote with each step towards the door on what Oikawa was supposed to do and how not to destroy the business, until Bokuto had gone over, gave him a powerful push to usher him (struggling) all the way outside, and closed the door, locking him out. He followed Akaashi to the station in a sulky silence that lasted from their hop on the first train to their next destination.  
  
At the changeover, when Akaashi led Iwaizumi to the gates for the Shinkansen, Iwaizumi asked where they were going. Akaashi managed to brush it aside as a surprise, and Iwaizumi fell into another (this time smouldering) silence.  
  
They were towards the end of their five-hour journey now, sitting for half an hour on a local train with another half left, and for twenty minutes of it, Akaashi’s shoulder had been a cushion for Iwaizumi, whose eyes were closed, fast asleep. Compared to the many instances where he had been a prop for napping businesspersons and students, none had made him so tense as he felt now, heavy breaths audible (and sometimes felt) from the man who started his day earlier than most, the sun included (depending on the season).  
  
(Akaashi casually shifted his arm five minutes before their arrival; Iwaizumi’s head dropped, and he startled awake, and Akaashi ignored the heavy questioning gaze by staring determinedly at the window ahead.)  
  
A final ten minutes on a bus and they were stepping off with its many passengers. Akaashi began to follow the line of people to the entrance when he noticed he was doing so alone, and he returned to Iwaizumi, who remained rooted at the bus stop.  
  
The bus drove away, and they stood alone.  
  
“You… brought me to a rose garden.”  
  
Akaashi looked ahead at the building bearing large letterings stating the park’s name.  
  
“This one seemed particularly interesting – did you know it holds over seven thousand varieties of roses? And other flowers are grown and in bloom as well to match the seasons.” Akaashi dropped his gaze to the ground. “Have you… visited this place before?”  
  
“Once, long ago. Was by myself though. Always wanted to come back here, never got round to it.”  
  
The tension Akaashi had been holding eased. He smiled up at Iwaizumi. “Shall we?”  
  
The sight of so many roses spread before him as they entered the gates had Akaashi stopping. The photographs he had viewed during his search weren’t comparable to seeing the roses scattered across such a vast area – and this was just one section of many. The website explained flowers were best viewed during mid-May through to end of June, but even with their slightly early timing, he wouldn’t be able to count their exact number.  
  
“Akaashi?”  
  
Akaashi blinked out of his trance, picking up his trail and catching up with Iwaizumi. They walked in silence together, and then wandered towards the path edge, slowing their feet to enjoy the flowers more closely. At first they drifted apart, or so Akaashi noticed, catching, in the corner of his eye, Iwaizumi saunter with his head fixed to the wavy bushes low and tall on the opposite side. He pushed the thought out, returning to the rose that filled his phone screen, taking a photograph for future reference.  
  
It turned out he had been over-thinking (or Iwaizumi had grown comfortable with the situation) as they moved onto the next section where the roses were growing in large rings, the outer taking five minutes to come full circle. Iwaizumi began to open up with minor facts – the discovery of the first blue rose, the thorns not actually thorns but prickles. Gradually these turned more technical – the oldest rose bush and its location, the science behind the ‘black’ rose, the first rose that travelled into space. Akaashi’s senses were overflowing, visually, from the dotted colours floating in a sea of green, olfactorily, from air thick with natural perfume, aurally, from the soothing tone of Iwaizumi’s voice that brought calm.  
  
The next time they drifted apart, Akaashi was no longer apprehensive about their drifting apart.  
  
Until he looked up, unable to find Iwaizumi anywhere. He followed the grey footpaths, weaving between the tall clusters, discovered a small archway leading to a new path and walked through—  
  
He spotted Iwaizumi not far off, crouching with a rose in hand. Quickly Akaashi pulled out his phone, fumbled with the buttons and set the camera ready – Iwaizumi leaned in, closing his eyes as he brought his nose to the crimson petals—  
  
At the shutter sound, Iwaizumi turned his head.  
  
“I’m sorry, you looked… I didn’t mean to disturb you.” Akaashi pushed the phone back into his pocket and went over, dropping to a crouch beside him. “...I can delete the photograph.”  
  
“…You can show it to me later.” Iwaizumi returned to the rose, running his thumb over the frills. “Thanks for bringing me here.”  
  
“I did consider choosing a location closer to home and then thought it would be more pleasant to turn this into a small trip.”  
  
It was Akaashi’s turn to reach out to the nearest rose head, a fresh, vibrant red; it was like holding his heart in his hand.  
  
“Why did you bring me here?”  
  
Akaashi glanced briefly – Iwaizumi’s eyes locked on him, unblinking and gently demanding – then turned back to the rose who demanded nothing except to be viewed and appreciated. “I remembered your answer regarding my question on roses. I couldn’t believe someone like you would dislike the notion of being surrounded by them, and I was quite bothered by it. It then struck that perhaps you would prefer to see them actually growing than in their cut form.”  
  
Akaashi released the rose, reached around for the side pocket on his rucksack and pulled out a tube, squeezing a small amount onto the back of his right hand; he massaged the cream firmly. “It’s a little dry today, isn’t it—”  
  
“Why are you doing this?”  
  
Akaashi slowed his movements, watching the cream blend into his skin. “Because you asked a question that demanded an answer, and this is my answer to your demand. While you complimented my sharpness on your character, I’m slow on the uptake regarding other matters… confessions and romantic gestures included.” He glanced aside to Iwaizumi’s arms resting on his knees, hands open and relaxed. “This is a date, Iwaizumi-san. If you would like it to be.”  
  
Iwaizumi’s fingers twitched – he flexed his fingers and then extended his arm towards Akaashi – placing his left hand onto Akaashi’s left continuing to clutch his right, stilling it. The stroke of Iwaizumi’s thumb over his knuckles made Akaashi’s pulse stagger.  
  
“You know it’s technically a second date.”  
  
Akaashi couldn’t stop his wry smile. “Yes, that was one of my realisations after you stormed out.”  
  
“I waited, every day, to see if you would talk to me. Each time you came, it was to buy flowers, and you left the shop, and you left me hanging. And then it was coming close to your deadline, and you still hadn’t said anything, so I thought…”  
  
Akaashi looked up to find Iwaizumi already watching. “I really like this, Akaashi. And I really like you.”  
  
Akaashi wasn’t as bold as Iwaizumi, and he averted his eyes back to their hands. “I, too, am attracted to you, not solely because I would like to carve a design onto your body.”  
  
Iwaizumi snorted. “I know.” He released his hold and returned to cupping the earlier rose. “This isn’t the first time someone’s thought to give me roses. But this is a million times better than the ones I received.”  
  
“Did something happen?”  
  
“Yeah. It did. Oikawa bought out roses of about five different shops, broke into my house and stuffed every single room with them, including the bathroom and toilet.”  
  
“I see.” Akaashi realised he could be treading on dangerous territory. “If he holds a flame for you—”  
  
“You want to talk about flames?” Iwaizumi said, suddenly sounding bitter. “I had a wisteria bonsai named Fujiko. I had her for ten years since junior high school. She had these gorgeous, luscious flowers that was a perfect blend of blue and pink, and she was beautiful. I was preparing dinner – me and Oikawa hadn’t seen each other for a couple of years and we finally arranged a time to catch up – and he wanted to see how she was doing. So I brought her to sit on the dining table so she could join us. Five minutes later, I get a call from the flower shop I worked at – which I’d left early to prepare for this dinner – asking if I could come in to help with this huge order that had come in. I left Oikawa in charge of the stove. I came back an hour later to find half the kitchen burnt down, along with—”  
  
Iwaizumi cleared his throat, turned his face away so Akaashi couldn’t see. “I‘m still not over it. Anyway. The bloody nose I gave him? That is why. The reason I don’t want anyone giving me a room full of roses? That is why.”  
  
“I… apologise, Iwaizumi-san, I had no idea. If I had known it would stir such sorrowful emotions, I would have avoided bringing you here—”  
  
“No.” Iwaizumi turned back to him. “I told you, I like this. All these roses growing together, all the different colours and shapes and varieties… even after everything that’s happened, roses will always be one of my favourites. So I really am grateful you brought me here.”  
  
Akaashi was about to say it wasn’t any trouble, when Iwaizumi’s lips were pressing on his. Not a quick brush or a soft touch; the kiss was firm enough to feel it weighted by the sincerity of his words and heart, and short enough not to overwhelm Akaashi, pulling back to give Akaashi room so he could decide if it was what he desired.  
  
Akaashi already knew what he desired.  
  
Iwaizumi pushed himself onto his feet and flashed an easy grin. “We better finish looking around, we’re gonna have to start making our way back if it’s going to take us another five hours to get home.”  
  
At that suggestion, Akaashi remembered the itinerary for the rest of the day. “There’s no need for that, Iwaizumi-san – Oikawa-san kindly arranged for us to stay at a ryokan.”  
  
The grin disappeared. “Say that again.”  
  
“Oikawa-san—”  
  
Iwaizumi held up his hand. “I heard you the first time. Akaashi, we’re going to set a rule – never ask Oikawa to do anything for you ever again.”  
  
“It was actually his suggestion, he insisted this be a part of the package—”  
  
“Okay, so _you_ got a good deal. But you’re racking up favours _I’m_ going to owe him.”  
  
“How would you come to owe Oikawa-san anything through all this?” Akaashi asked, standing up as Iwaizumi rubbed his eyes with a small groan.  
  
“Because I was stupid and didn’t care about the consequences when I made him listen to my pining.”  
  
“Pining for—”  
  
“For you, Akaashi! Ever since you first walked into my shop, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you!”  
  
“Oh.” Akaashi felt his cheeks grow warm at the confession. “You should have just said.”  
  
Iwaizumi’s mouth hung open, disbelief written in the lines around his eyes and forehead.  
  
“That white bouquet – roses, ‘I’m thinking of you’, baby’s breath, ‘long lasting love’, anemone, ‘sincerity’, stock, ‘affection’ – any bouquet without a specific request were all pinks and reds – carnation, camellia, dahlia, aster – they all have meanings of love and affection. The pink tulips? I was gonna go for it and then they were squashed, not that it would’ve mattered if they hadn’t been because it turned out they would’ve meant nothing to you because that was the one flower you didn’t know the meaning of!  
  
“And then I told you I liked you after we had dinner. Do you remember that? When I confessed, and it went right over your head?”  
  
The memory of all the flowers and the direct confession had Akaashi hotter under the collar; he wouldn’t be surprised if he was turning into the very shade of the roses watching the interaction, the play of the breeze stirring them into a fit of giggles. “You may add them all to my list of belated realisations.”  
  
A sigh followed, loud enough to be carried to the other side of the garden, and then Akaashi found his hand being grabbed.  
  
“We’re having lunch and we’re getting drinks to go with it. I need a drink to go with it.” Iwaizumi began pulling him along, sparing a glance over his shoulder. “Might as well make a whole day out of this. It’s not like we’re pressed for time.”  
  
Akaashi let Iwaizumi lead, and the tug on his hand also tugged his lips into a small smile.  
  
“Indeed, we’re in no rush at all.”

As ryokans went, the one Akaashi and Iwaizumi were staying at was quintessential; separated from the town and halfway up a hill enclosed by trees at the edge of a forest, open-air baths attached to the more extravagant suites (though the rooms ranked lower were still comely), a full-course dinner with the freshest produce set up to be enjoyed in the privacy of their rooms.  
  
There was one small detail that separated it from most – the ryokan welcomed ink.  
  
Not that relaxing in the hot spring would have been an issue when they had their own, a circular wooden tub out on the deck that easily accommodated two people. But the option of using the communal baths made Akaashi feel welcome where he would normally feel shunned.  
  
Akaashi put his bag down (again, kindly provided by Oikawa who had included spare clothes to fit Iwaizumi; Akaashi refrained from mentioning this point, forming an alternative excuse of him being taller so assuming Iwaizumi would fit – this didn’t go down so well either.)  
  
“We’ve still got a couple of hours before they set the table up for dinner,” Iwaizumi said, flicking through channels on the television. He turned it off, falling backwards to lay spread out on the floor.  
  
Akaashi headed out onto the balcony, enticed by the trickling water. “I’m going to make good use of the bath,” he said, walking behind the screen.  
  
“You go first.”  
  
He quickly backtracked, peering around the glass door. “Are you not joining me?”  
  
“I’m gonna rest a bit.” Iwaizumi proceeded to close his eyes. To Akaashi it seemed more to make a point than to actually sleep, and he felt a twinge of disappointment.  
  
Akaashi stripped off his clothes, folded them and placed them on a neat pile on one of the deck chairs, and looked around for the towels—  
  
“They must be inside,” he murmured, grabbing his underwear to at least make himself decent before returning to the room. He checked the big cupboard by the deck doors, found a pile of towels ready and took one large and one small, then made his way outside again—  
  
“Your back, Akaashi.”  
  
Akaashi looked over his left shoulder, catching the turquoise and brown reminding him of what was displayed there, and then caught Iwaizumi pushing himself up, eyes darting across the bare back spread before him.  
  
It was the first carving he had received, the sole memory being three printed photographs kept in the drawer of his desk, two close-ups of each side and the overall piece, a natural vignette formed from the white spotlight shining in the solemnly dark room. It was the last carving he usually recalled, practically invisible to him, except for when his head was swimming with ideas after an inspiring shower and, stepping out of the bathroom immediately stepping back, reaching for his razor, brush and lather bowl on the shelf and catching the flash of bright colours reflected onto the mirror.  
  
“It was the first piece I requested to have carved, and one carved by my master.”  
  
“Can I touch it?”  
  
Akaashi hesitated. Not because he didn’t want to feel Iwaizumi’s hands on him, far from it. His ability to perceive another’s interest towards him may be stunted, but even he could visualise what lay ahead the casual intrigue.  
  
He gripped the towels tighter. “…If you wish.”  
  
There was a shuffle from Iwaizumi standing up and then from him walking on the tatami, and then silence stretched out to test Akaashi’s patience; he wanted to turn his head again, to confirm Iwaizumi’s position, but was afraid of seeing Iwaizumi’s emotions exposed.  
  
His first touch was on the spine, tracing the single character positioned centrally on his back, large and solid black and written in Sanskrit – ‘hri’, to symbolise the celestial Buddha Amitabha that was also representative of his birth animal, a boar. Iwaizumi traced the folded lines deliberately slow (though Akaashi was sure the stroke order was incorrect), down and around the final flick, ending at the two dots lined vertically to the right.  
  
The touch disappeared, to be felt again to the lower right – the location of the boar’s head, Akaashi remembered – fur a rich brown and black like soil where flowers could flourish; indeed they did, sprouting around and above the boar, chrysanthemum and garden peony and hibiscus, which were rooted in decades-long carving tradition, and Akaashi determined the sensation of Iwaizumi’s fingers trailing over their petals to be the same strength applied when handling his flowers. Akaashi shivered; from the brush against the back of his neck, or from this realisation, he wasn’t sure.  
  
Another pause, and then a long stroke down his left side along the magnificent flow of turquoise belonging to the peacock, known as the vehicle of Amitabha, taking off in flight, spanning from his shoulder blade all the way down past his backside to the back of his thigh – Iwaizumi stopped by his waist, took one of the divergent branches supplied by the plum tree growing in the background, raspberry buds dotted and forever waiting for their moment to bloom. Iwaizumi took his time, from one branch to the next until the last down his lower back, where he released Akaashi from his careful, if not agonisingly slow, examination.  
  
No other touch followed. Akaashi was ready to make a move towards the bath when he felt the touch over the heavenly bamboo. Suddenly he was all too aware of the closeness of Iwaizumi’s body, becoming feverish from the warmth he was sure was an illusion.  
  
Iwaizumi’s lips brushed against his ear—  
  
“Tell me to stop, Akaashi, and I will.”  
  
Akaashi tilted his head a fraction in his direction and managed a strangled whisper—  
  
“Please don’t.”  
  
That was how Akaashi found himself with Iwaizumi pressing kisses along his neck, hands that had been guided by the lines wandering freely down his body that had yet to be claimed by ink, burning a trail into his skin – he almost wished he could pen them as guides to have carved with scattered petals to commemorate the moment, but that would have been futile; Iwaizumi’s hands were everywhere, making Akaashi dazed, pliant to Iwaizumi’s requests – hands steering him around, lips capturing his own swiping a request for more, body leaning onto him so he complied to lower himself onto his knees, to fold his legs into sitting, to lie back, spread on the floor.  
  
Their passion for each other was as quiet as their passion towards their respective arts, breathing ragged and occasionally catching in surprise at an unforeseen delectation, as one might do when discovering a beautiful flower blooming in the shadow of an abandoned lot, or leaning back to admire ink spread in its final glory. Their movements were slow – at least initially, until it built up to rival Akaashi’s hand as he carved, except it was Iwaizumi who set the rhythm and Akaashi responding in desperation, continually readjusting the clutch around broad shoulders, the grip around the waist to pull him further in for that perfect position that would have them penetrate a dye true and paint a pigment certain, carved into their memories and splayed across their bodies.

Akaashi lowered his body into the hot spring water, wincing as he sat and then sighing as he relaxed, a view of shadowed treetops against a backdrop of pastel pink – however, the urge to rest his eyes won and his senses submerged into the peace of the cool evening.  
  
There was a slosh of water from beside him, ripples nudging his arm.  
  
“What was the real reason for refusing to ink me?”  
  
Their dispute seemed like a faded dream (or nightmare) carried off and dissipating with the steam, and it took a good moment to recall the exact interaction.  
  
“It seemed a shame to cover your body without having first admired your physique stripped bare. I didn’t want your natural beauty to be concealed behind ink so soon.” Akaashi sank into the water until it touched his chin. “My reasons were self-centred.”  
  
“My natural beauty.” There was a small waver to Iwaizumi’s light tone that sounded like he was trying to hold back a laugh.  
  
“Your muscles really are a sight to behold.” Akaashi opened his eyes, sidled onto Iwaizumi’s chest that was only partially concealed by the darkening water. “I’ll need some time to consider how best to approach your piece… should you still want it done.”  
  
“Why wouldn’t I?”  
  
“Oikawa-san told me you were swayed into accepting the carving because you were trying to win my attention and affection. While I’m flattered you would go so far, I still stand by my words – you should only have yourself carved if you are completely sure you wish to have it done.” Akaashi looked up at the sky, the navy blending into the pink and making an approach to blend into the trees so they would become one. “Whatever you decide, I think I may have the design carved onto myself,” his musing slipped out.  
  
“Isn’t the first rule of inking not to have anything related to a significant other?”  
  
“Even if we were to separate, it wouldn’t stop the fact that you were an earth-shaking presence in my life. I would like to remember that feeling – that stroke of inspiration. It wouldn’t be to remember a person I came to love, it would be a memory of a person who influenced me.” His words sank in and he quickly turned to Iwaizumi. “I would like it to signify both, if possible. In its own time, of course.”  
  
His words powdered a blush onto Iwaizumi’s face; Iwaizumi coughed and cleared his throat. “Slow and steady, right?”  
  
Iwaizumi swam ahead to the side of the tub closest to the trees, resting his arms over the edge. “You should wait until a decent amount of time’s passed, at least.”  
  
“How long would that be?”  
  
“Something that big? I dunno” – Iwaizumi waved a hand, ruffled his hair between clenching it – “four, five years maybe.” He rested his arm back down, and rested his chin on top.  
  
“I’m not sure I can wait that long. I’m already imagining it as a mirror to yours.”  
  
“You think I’ll go through with it?”  
  
“Eventually.” Akaashi waded through the water to sit beside Iwaizumi, also resting his arms over the side.  
  
“You’re probably right,” Iwaizumi mumbled. “But I’m not rushing into it.”  
  
“How much time do you think it’ll take for you to be mentally prepared?”  
  
“…Four, five years.”  
  
Akaashi couldn’t contain the small smile when Iwaizumi’s glance slid onto him.  
  
“I don’t know,” Iwaizumi continued, looking out at the tops of trees. “Long enough for me to make sure that the drawing’s what I really want.”  
  
“A sensible approach. Much more suited to your character than flying headfirst without thinking.”  
  
“Some people are prone to doing stupid or unexpected things, and sometimes I’m one of them. Talking of which” – Iwaizumi turned his body towards him, leaning onto his side – “what’re you gonna do with all those flowers?”  
  
“I was considering gifting many of the cut flowers to friends or those whom I speak with regularly during my shop as an expression of my gratitude for their hard work and kindness.”  
  
A fond smile appeared on Iwaizumi’s face. “And the rest?”  
  
“The rest, I was hoping would tempt you into making frequent visits so you might teach me how to look after the flowers. I’m afraid my knowledge is limited, and as there are potted plants, I’d like to know how to take proper care of them. If you’d be willing, of course.”  
  
“I’d ask if you’re using that as an excuse for me to visit, but I’ve been wrong twice already.”  
  
“They do say third time’s the charm.”  
  
Iwaizumi stared – and then he was leaning in, pressing his lips against Akaashi’s, firm and decisive.  
  
He pulled back, creating a gap that would fit a single rose between them. “I should check the flowers are in good shape when we get back.”  
  
“I hoped you would.”  
  
“And if you’re gifting bouquets, better to have a professional bunch them together.”  
  
“I was going to say.”  
  
“And there are a lot of flowers that need watering and that need to have their water changed.”  
  
“I could use an extra pair of hands.”  
  
Then Akaashi leaned in, pausing with a gap that was the width of a floral leaf. “And after all that’s done?”  
  
Iwaizumi’s amused huff touched his lips as a foretaste of things to come. “Exactly what we’re about to do now.”  
  
And as they both closed in on the last millimetre, petals burst inside Akaashi’s chest, inking his heart in the solid, tender shade he could only describe as the colour of Iwaizumi.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading this story :3


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